


Mismatched

by ChocoNut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, No Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Jaime Lannister, betrothed to Margaery Tyrell, visits Highgarden to get to know his intended better. He runs into his childhood friend Brienne of Tarth who is sent there by her father to learn the ways of a lady under Margaery's influence. Lord Selwyn hopes to soon seek Renly Baratheon's hand for his daughter, and this, he believes, is a stepping stone to that.When Jaime meets Brienne, their friendship is rekindled, paving the way for more.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 153
Kudos: 251





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set before Season 1, a pre-canon AU I've been wanting to begin for long, but waited until I finished “A Twist of Fate” so that I could free up some mental space for another canon fic.  
> Thank you for reading and let me know what you think.

“Never thought I would run into you here, wench.”

If his arrival had startled her, Brienne didn’t show it. Blue eyes, unchanged after the five and ten years that had passed between their last meeting and this one, shifted their attention from the shrub she was examining and onto him. “Never thought _you_ would end up as a suitor for Lady Margaery.”

Jaime had to smile—her answer to his question with one of her own reminding him of the days of their past, when they had spent considerable part of their early years training together, constantly snapping and biting each other’s heads off—engaging in a war of words and one of their blades, both wanting no more than to better the other in a skill dearer to them than any other. 

“You’re still the same, my lady.”

The second he had said this, he found himself the hapless victim of a scathing glare. “I’m no lady—”

He burst into peals of laughter at her indignation, her girlish objection, no less fiery than now, still fresh in his mind. “Absolutely the same without a doubt. You haven’t changed in all these years. Still stubborn and still eager to work your way through a man’s world, seeking an identity uncommon for a maiden.”

“And you’re still disapproving of it.” Angry eyes seemed keen to cut him down. “Just like you were in those days.” 

“I was a naive young lad then—” he offered her his arm, and after a slight frown of contemplation, she took it, and he led her down the gardens for a walk “—but not anymore.” Looking back at his life, he often found it tough to believe how far he had come, how drastically he had changed.

No further arguments, she took to keeping pace with him.

“So what brings you to Highgarden, wench?” he asked again, his inability to draw a connection between her and the Tyrells nudging him into another bout of curiosity to know more about his childhood friend’s intent.

“Father insisted I spend some time with Lady Margaery,” she began explaining with an expression of sour distaste. “He wishes for me to learn the ways of the ladies, hoping the prolonged company of one of the prettiest and the most graceful maidens in the country would influence me in a way that—”

“—opens you up to the idea of marriage and makes you somewhat desirable to men,” Jaime guessed, chuckling, knowing full well how utterly averse she was to the prospect. “I know you, wench, and I know that you—”

“—are completely unfit for marriage, unlovable and—”

“That was not what I was about to say, Brienne—”

“Of course, that’s what you think,” she scathingly interrupted, walking faster, her gait more like his than what she was here to learn. “You’re one of _them_ , another in the herd who enjoys mocking and pointing out my shortcomings and feels—”

“There are no men like me.” Tugging them to a halt, he looked into her eyes. “Only me. You know that, don’t you?” 

A thin shivering curve of a smile, his boasting was met with. “Still the same arrogance, Jaime. I see no change in you at all—” 

“I do not regard your views in the same light as other men do.” While he had not spared much thought for his friend during their years apart, stumbling into her unexpectedly that morning had him wondering how her life had turned out to be. “That is a change, don’t you think?” 

Mollified, she perceived him with curiosity. “Your _interests_ definitely seem to have shifted as you matured with age,” she observed, and Jaime could make out that she had chosen her words cautiously. And he knew why.

They resumed their stroll, and he slipped into thoughts about what she was referring to. His single-minded devotion to Cersei had been an outcome of his momentary burst of passion, an obsession that lasted for years, the reason for his peaceful reconciliation of his inclusion in the Kingsguard. He had never looked beyond her since then— even after she was given away to Robert. For years, he had been battling his father’s will, claiming to have no woman but his sister, the charm of her beauty and the power she held on him blinding him to every thing else.

The magic began wearing away slowly, but surely, when Cersei had begun resorting to seeking her pleasures in the arms of other men—their cousin Lancel, in particular, whenever Jaime was compelled to accompany the king during his travels. At first, his jealousy compelled him to confront her, most of their nights in her bedchambers ending in heated arguments, but as time rolled by, his desire to seek the warmth of her body began to wane, his affections for her coursing towards _brotherly_ in contrast to the romantic love he’d once borne for her. And noting this _shift in his interests_ , his shrewd father wasted no time in persuading Olenna Tyrell to accept his hand for her granddaughter. With only feeble excuses and no real reason to continue donning the white cloak, Jaime crumbled, giving in to his father’s will, resigned to the fate that Casterly Rock and Margaery Tyrell were his life to come.

“Jaime?”

“You’re correct in a way, wench.” He led her to a bench amidst some rose bushes. “My father’s dreams have now become my interests.”

She smiled, in an encouraging sort of way this time. “I’m certain you’ll charm Lady Margaery and have her swooning in your arms within days. After all, which woman could possibly resist—”

“The _Kingslayer_ ,” he sighed, leaning back in his seat. While his intended had been careful not to mention his tainted title, deep down, Jaime could sense her resentment every time they met, her displeasure masked by sweet words of courtly courtesy and a smile that never made it to her eyes. “She’ll never—”

“Stop dwelling on it,” Brienne gently reprimanded him. “Once she sees what you are from within—”

“Can _you_?” He shut Margaery out of his mind for a moment. “Can you see the man I am, wench?” 

“Well—” her earnest eyes doused the doubt in his “—I can see that you have moved on for your good and the welfare of your house, that you no longer crave the need to mock or criticise me—although I do admit it is somewhat difficult to digest this change. It’ll take me a while to get accustomed to this new you. Since you cared to seek my opinion—” she paused, her smile taking on a mischievous edge “— I would widely appreciate it if you stopped calling me _wench_ from now on—”

“That’s not going to happen,” he teased, the good moments of their days together floating past his mind. “You’re my wench, wench, and you will be until the world ends or the gods descend between us.” 

She laughed, and for a few peaceful seconds, they sat there, basking in the pinkish glow of twilight, free and themselves in each other’s company, not having to feign courtesy or fake words. So vastly different from each other, yet, so similar they were, and Jaime couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She too, like him, was slowly being pushed towards embracing a future she’d rather stay away from, coercing her to accept a man who’d be more than glad to smother her swordplay and see those hands busy themselves with tasks befitting a lady.

“Does your father have anyone in mind for you?” he asked, careful not to infuse too much interest into his inquiry.

Her gaze shifted into a tenderness he’d never seen before, her eyelashes fluttering like the demure maiden she wasn’t. “It’s dusk already, I should be going—”

He caught her wrist and pulled her back before she could get away. “So there _is_ someone you desire.” He could read it on her face, for Brienne of Tarth seldom managed to successfully mask her emotions. “You can tell me, wench.”

“Father wishes to seek Lord Renly’s hand—”

“Renly!” he loudly exclaimed, recalling hearing in passing some months back that she was contemplating joining his guard. “You fancy Renly Baratheon?”

“I _do not_ fancy him.” But her face had taken the shade of the setting sun. “And I should really leave—”

“Let’s make a deal, Brienne,” he teased, tightening his grip on her wrist. “You help me woo Margaery whilst I—”

“You’re going to help me charm Renly?” Every part of her face was aghast at his suggestion.

“So you do _want_ to charm him.” 

“I deeply admire him—”

“You want to marry him.” Jaime was frowning at her, at the pathetic choice she’d made. “You want to be a wife, wench, bear his children—”

“So what if I do?” she snapped, her trembling lips challenging him to argue, to criticize her desire. “But I know that can never happen, a man like him could never—” She looked away, but let her hand linger in his. “I just wish to stay close to him, to keep him safe.”

She was fucking in love with him. And Renly the beauty, Jaime found to his utter displeasure, was someone he could never bring himself to approve of for his friend. “If it's going to be of any help,” he began, the urge to do Brienne good overshadowing his ill-feelings for the handsome Baratheon, “I could shower you with my words of wisdom, educate you on how to win a man like him.” He smiled when her eyes widened with alarm. “You can pretend I’m Renly and practice your _womanly charms_ on me while you learn the likes and dislikes of your lady friend and show me ways to get to her heart before I step into a Sept with her—”

“I possess no womanly charms nor do I have any interest in acquiring such skills—” she fumed, eyes blazing through him “— _you_ of all the people should be well aware of that.” 

“Why are you here, Brienne?”

“In the hope that complying with his wish for me to spend time with Margaery will quieten my father.” She pulled her hand away and got to her feet. “His plan will, no doubt, fail, and when he realizes his efforts were futile, he won’t speak of marriage again,” she said, her voice unstable. “I have no intention of pursuing Renly because dreams, unfortunately, never bother to show up in reality for a woman like me. Yours, like father’s, is a terrible idea, Jaime.” 

Her eyes downcast, she began walking towards the gate. 

Leaving his seat, he chased after her, eager to get rid of the disappointment in those pretty eyes. “Think about it, wench. Renly will be visiting at the turn of the moon.” While he had his reservations about the man she’d chosen, the stories he’d heard about his aberrations would remain wild tales until proven otherwise, the truth of which, he resolved, he would soon seek to uncover. And if all turned out well, he wanted to see his friend get what she desired, to see her lead a happy and contented life. “We could help each other get to the end of our respective journeys. What are friends for after all?”

Brienne said nothing, her silence and stiff gait the only answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olenna Tyrell pelts Brienne with a surprise question.

Jaime Lannister had always been a formidable opponent. Be it the endless hours of sparring they had engaged in when they were younger or the countless men he’d cut down, his skill and the effortless brilliance with which he handled the weapon had led him to be known as one of the finest swordsmen in the country.

“I told you then—” he parried her blow with a defensive stroke befitting the expert he was “—and I say it now—” he gained a step on her, then another, cornering her against the wall “—it isn’t often my opponent gets the better of me, so you might as well give up—”

“Oh, I’ve beaten you countless times. Or have you conveniently forgotten?” Brienne grunted, slipping away before he could pin her to the wall and claim victory. “And you better watch out, because I’m going to do it again today—” 

“A tough competition, no doubt.”

The honeyed voice and the soft musical tone had served their purpose. Jaime’s eyes flew to Margaery who had just entered with her grandmother, and taking advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration, Brienne stretched her foot, tripping him.

“That—” he staggered, taken aback, his fingers groping the wall behind him to keep himself from falling “—that wasn’t a fair move, wench.”

Paying no heed to his surprise and indignation, she shoved him against the wall and held him tightly pinned, body to body, hand gripping his wrist, trapping him so he couldn’t use his weapon. “Would you use that as an excuse against a real opponent, Jaime? Could you have afforded a distraction if this were a real duel?”

He glared at her. “In a real duel I won’t be swinging a wooden sword.”

“Fair point,” she conceded the argument, Margaery’s presence ruining the thrill of the game, dulling the shine of her victory. “In a real duel, you won’t have your intended sauntering in and distracting you with her unannounced arrival.” This had been a private moment between her and Jaime, and for some reason, she wasn’t too comfortable with the Tyrell women joining them as an audience. “They say a fair maiden has it in her to bring down kingdoms—” she frowned at her friend’s handsome face “—yours just happened to weaken you enough to let me taste victory. Your loss is my gain.”

The glare melted down into a smirk. “She isn’t _mine_ yet, not until you—” 

“I told you your plan is ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” he whispered, nudging his face to hers. “Do you not wish, wench, that it was Renly you were pressed up against—”

“Of course not.” But she felt a warm _something_ gush up her neck.

“Would you not want your pretty boy to look deep into your eyes—” he trapped her in an intense gaze, as if seeing past her face, burrowing the depths of her mind “—and tell you that you have the most astonishing eyes in the world—”

“He’s—” her fingers began to slip around the hilt “—he’s never going to say that—” 

“Oh, he will.” Jaime exhaled deeply, bathing her in his breath. “If you touch him like this—” he glanced down at her hand on his shirt “—your fingers tangled in his laces, teasing and playing before trailing down his chest, slowly, gently, relishing the sensation of skin on skin, aching to get beneath this barrier to more—” 

Embarrassed, Brienne drew her hand away, and what happened next was a blur, because Jaime was too quick for her. Taking control, he deftly disarmed her, and seizing her arms in a death grip, he flipped them over. Now she was at his mercy, at the receiving end of his triumphant smile. “Yield, wench,” he growled, his eyes wandering over her with smugness, every inch of him gloating about his achievement..

“That wasn’t a fair move,” she complained, cursing her carelessness. It would be an honour to be beaten by Jaime, but not like this, not when he had her— “You cheated.”

He didn’t budge. “So did you.” 

“I didn’t—”

“Let’s call a truce, my lady, and put an end to this.”

“I’m not your lady,” she barked, craning her neck to look past him. “ _Your lady_ stands there, awaiting your company. But truce, it is, because you must not keep her waiting any longer.”

When he let go of her, they packed away their weapons and headed towards the two women, and Jaime, as soon as they were within a couple of feet from their audience, flashed his betrothed a charming heart-melting smile. “My lady,” he whispered, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

“Ser Jaime.” She returned his greeting with a smile most men would kill for, her pretty cheeks, before long, the soft pink of her gown. “I’d love to watch you challenge my brother some time.”

“Whenever he’s up to it,” Jaime graciously agreed, having eyes only for the pretty lady. Now that they weren’t alone anymore, he’d forgotten Brienne was around, leading the way into the castle with Margeary by his side, clinging to his arm. Brienne’s mind went back to their first conversation, and if she could rely on her eyes, Jaime, with all the charm he exuded, needed no help wooing his bride-to-be. Maintaining a careful distance behind them, she watched as they laughed and talked, and while there was an effortless ease in the conversation, she could sense a slight stiffness, a reservation in Margaery’s demeanour.

“That was a tremendously intense duel, my dear.”

Brienne tore her eyes away from the happy couple to meet the keen and inquiring pair regarding her with interest. 

“Tell me,” Lady Olenna began, gesturing they walked back together, “have you and Ser Jaime known each other for long?”

“We trained together, my lady,” Brienne reminisced with a smile. “I know him more than I know anyone else. Even after we parted ways we’ve been writing to each other.”

“Then you would consider him a worthy match for my granddaughter?” Sharp eyes began probing hers, easing out details. “The Kingslayer—”

“ _Ser Jaime_ , if you please,” Brienne politely interrupted, the word striking her with a stab of indignation. “He—” _had his own reasons for slaying the king who had not the right to live_ , she almost blurted out, but that was a secret Jaime had trusted her with, to be closely guarded among the few he had chosen. “Let his past not darken the bright future before them. He’s no more the man he was—” 

“His sister—”

“—is now no more than that,” Brienne assured the old woman. “He will shower Lady Margaery with all the love and happiness—”

“Would you mind if I asked you something, Lady Brienne?”

“Not at all.”

Olenna spared a fleeting glance at her granddaughter before turning those eyes back onto her. “You say you and Ser Jaime have been friends for years—” the lines at the edges of her eyes intensified “—how did it never grow to become more than that?” 

Stupefied by the question, Brienne merely gaped for a moment. “Because—” she had never thought of Jaime that way and never would “—we have never seen each other as more than close acquaintances.”

“Hmm,” the old woman acknowledged, nodding thoughtfully.

“I don’t love him,” she firmly ascertained, looking her squarely in the eye, hoping that would kill all her doubts and bury them deep under the ground.

Olenna Tyrell had left her in peace for the rest of the day, but Brienne couldn’t shake off the conversation even at dinner—the possibility of Jaime and her being more than what they were, too far-fetched to even think of. For years, they had been corresponding through frequent letters, exchanging little joys and sharing their darkest moments, each, a shoulder to cry on for the other, but never had they stepped beyond that, sticking to their sides of this invisible line keeping them content with what they had.

“Lady Brienne—”

“Lady Margaery.” Brienne rose, glad to be drawn out of the web she’d been trapped into.

“Would you be kind enough to join me for a drink in my chambers?” Margaery requested, wearing one of her winning smiles. 

Brienne obliged her, and once within the closed doors of privacy with a goblet each to keep them occupied, she turned to Brienne with a strange look in her eyes. “Would you mind if I asked you something, Lady Brienne?”

A chill gripped Brienne’s chest when she sensed where this was leading. “Not at all, my lady.”

“You and Ser Jaime—” she clenched her fingers around her glass, then loosened her grip “—are you—”

“We know each other well.” 

Margaery nodded. 

Brienne waited, then added, “As friends would.”

“A handsome man like him—have you never felt an attraction, Lady Brienne?”

His attractive face floated across her mind, and she felt… _nothing_. “Never.”

Margaery relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing out as she took another sip of her drink. “And here I was, worried that—”

“You need worry about nothing, my lady.” Finishing her wine, Brienne got up. “Ser Jaime would make a very fine husband,” she gushed, smiling. “I can vouch for him.”

While Brienne had done her best to reassure both women, a doubt began creeping into her mind as she retired to her chambers and to the warmth of her bed. Lady Olenna, like the rest of the world, perceived him as the Kingslayer, the revulsion in her tone unmistakable when she’d asked about Jaime that morning. On top of that was Margaery’s guarded behaviour despite being outwardly warm towards him.

Which meant— It could mean only one thing— 

Abandoning her bed, Brienne shot off straight to the only person who might have some answers.

“Wench—” He stepped aside to let her in, and Brienne, despite her immunity towards her friend’s flawless body, found her eyes lurking around his bare chest and the godly perfection it was. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“This alliance—” she burst out without a context “—does Lady Olenna wholeheartedly approve of it?”

Jaime sat down on the bed with a frown. “My father had a tough time convincing her. She was bent upon securing Renly as a match for—” his eyes widened “—and if Renly’s coming here, she might probably—”

“—get her granddaughter to charm him,” Brienne surmised the rest, summarizing the Tyrells’ plans. “But she can’t, because Margaery is promised to you. She wouldn’t go against the word she has given your father unless—” No wonder both women were inquiring about her and Jaime, trying to invent a bond that ran deeper than friendship—something they could use as an excuse to, possibly, call off this union.

Getting up, he grabbed a shirt lying on the pillow and pulled it on, leaving the laces carelessly open when done. “Unless what?” 

Again, Brienne had to try not to let her eyes wander. The Jaime she’d seen last had been a boy on the threshold of adulthood, but this was a grown man—tall and handsome and—

“Wench?” 

“They—Lady Olenna and Margaery think—” she cleared her throat, her palms suddenly sweaty as her eyes darted here and there before steadying on him “—they think you and I are more than friends.”

A shadow crossed his face. “That is ridiculous.”

“I almost told them so but—” 

Brienne knew what to do next. And she would willingly do it for her friend. The Lord of Casterly Rock, he was meant to be, the heir to his father and his own heirs to follow, and she would do all she could to see him exchange vows with Margaery. She would not let him be found lacking in his father’s eyes.

“We have to prove them wrong, Jaime. If you wish to take this union to success, you must woo and wed Margaery at the earliest—”

“Are you saying you’ll help me?” The disarming smile was back again, determined to woo her into succumbing.

And this time, his efforts were not even necessary.

“Your wife-to-be loves pretty dresses—” she rattled off the first thing about her beautiful companion that came to her head “—silk and laces and elaborate embroidery. So a well-tailored gown that would do her justice is where you might want to start if you want to get close to her.”

“And you might want to start dancing again.” Taking her hand, he gently drew her closer. “You danced with Renly once and you’re going to do it again—”

“I don’t dance anymore,” she whispered, panic-stricken at the thought. “Not after that—”

“I wish I could have been there for you instead of Renly that evening, my words against those that insulted you—” a flash of anger appeared in his eyes, but it was gone in a blink “—your hand in mine and you in my arms. Like this—” his other hand went around her waist, and caught unawares by this sudden move, she had to brace herself against him, her palm on his chest “—but he got there before me, wench.”

“He isn’t you.”

“I know.” He gently twirled her around and drew her back into his arms. “He’s the man you love, the one you should be dancing with at my betrothal feast—” 

“I can’t dance,” she breathed, her fingers caressing the soft fabric of his shirt. “I don’t even recall the steps—”

“You’re a lady. You’ve grown up learning all this,” he tried to motivate her, but unconvinced, she stared back at him. “We still have time. You can practice with me, pretend I’m Renly,” he suggested with a playful smile. “Consider this to be akin to one of our training sessions.” 

She untied herself from his embrace. “Why are you doing this, Jaime? You have never favoured Renly—”

“Because you love him,” he said in a resigned tone. “And because a Lannister always pays his debts—”

“You owe me nothing.”

“As a friendly gesture then,” he said, ever ready with a counter-answer. “Compensating for all the times I should’ve been by your side, keeping you away from those mean boys.”

“Jaime—”

“You must leave now, wench.” Striding across to the door, he held it open for her. “Get out of here before anyone happens to see us together and draws some stupid conclusions.”

“But—”

“A dress, I must gift her, then, in a colour that pleases her. And for you—” he concluded, a gentle smile playing his lips “—now is a chance to remind him of that moment you shared, to let it blossom into something more.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gives Margaery the new dress, as planned. But little does he know that this simple act will lead to something more.

“You look lovely in pink, my lady,” Jaime complimented, noticing that the blushing maiden did more justice than he had expected to the colour Brienne had chosen for her.

Margaery thanked him with a girlish giggle. “You flatter me too much, Ser Jaime.” Her face was the colour of her gown, soft and radiant. “It is the delicacy of the cloth, the perfection in the needlework,” she bashfully waved away his praise.

“A charming dress for a charming lady,” he said graciously, mentally thanking the wench for the suggestion. “A rose for a pretty rose.” 

She lowered her eyes, demure and coy, just like a lady ought to be. Margaery was beautiful, every man’s dream come true, an able picture of a wife and a mother-to-be, and Jaime ought to be lucky his father had chosen her, that she had consented to be his wife.

_Yet…_

There was something lacking in her, something appealing—not a lady’s charm, for she was blessed with an abundance of that, but a _something_ he’d seen deep down in the blue eyes he’d come to admire over the years. Margaery had lovely eyes, too, but they were no match for the warmth in Brienne’s, and Jaime found himself thinking more often than necessary about them, slipping into frequent spells of—

“You grew up with Lady Brienne, didn’t you?”

“For the better part of my formative years,” he replied, cautious and guarded, choosing every word as he looked into the curious face, the wench’s warning the first thing to come to his mind, alerting him to refrain from uttering anything that might lead her in the wrong direction.

Margaery nodded and went back to her drink, thoughtful, as if reading some hidden meaning in his statement. Why, he could fathom, though, given that her grandmother didn’t seem too keen to give her away to become the Kingslayer’s wife. But he was certain she wouldn’t succeed if this was her chosen path. There was nothing between Brienne and him—nothing that could bring about the dissolution of this alliance, if they assumed their erroneous judgement would lead them to it.

“And have you never felt more than a friendly pull towards each other?”

Wary, he sat back, gazing into the depths of his wine as if it might point him the right way to parry these questions. This new complication had put him in a quandary. But answers, he must provide, for if he hesitated, his reluctance might only strengthen their baseless doubts about him and Brienne venturing beyond the threshold of friendship, giving rise to rumours that could prove injurious to both of them. Brienne wanted Renly—she loved him with all her heart, and if he wanted her happiness, he couldn’t afford to take this lightly. He had to tread carefully, and measure every word before it got past his lips.

“Never,” he categorically replied, hoping his tone conveyed the finality he wanted to. “Neither of us felt the need to pursue anything more.”

“Not even your father?” Sharp brown eyes were probing his, scanning, as if trying to find out if he was concealing anything. “Lord Tywin, I am told, was keen on finding you a wife even before you joined the Kingsguard,” she slowly pointed out, punctuating her words with dainty sips of her drink. “Why did he have to look far and wide when there was a girl—a noblewoman, the heir to Tarth, right beneath his nose—”

“I had no interest in marriage then.” He lowered his glass thoughtfully, recalling how he’d resisted his father’s attempts and done everything in his power to ensure he remained close to Cersei. “My father did try his best.”

Her brows met. “With Lady Brienne?”

“Lysa Tully,” he reminisced, his mind going back to the night he’d written to the wench in panic, pouring out his woes to her, of how he was close to being wrenched away from his sister and promised to a woman he had no love for. “Brienne was never even in consideration.” Knowing how averse she was to the future of a life by the hearth, Jaime amused himself for a moment picturing her reaction had his father approached Lord Selwyn for her hand.

“So just friends then.”

Her insistence on repeated reassurance left him smiling. “You have no cause for worry, my lady.” Perhaps, Brienne had misinterpreted her intention. Margaery sounded more like a woman aching with jealousy than one conspiring to wriggle out of this marriage. Either way, he had nothing to hide. Brienne and himself were as mismatched a pair as one could be.

“As a friend who has known her for years—” a smile began to form at the corners of her mouth “—what do you propose to gift Lady Brienne on her name day?”

 _Name day?_ He sat back, working out in his head what day this was. Of course. How could he have forgotten? “I—” his mind began composing a list of everything that would appeal to Brienne—weapons, a new armour—

“How about a dress?” 

Jaime looked up to find Margaery beaming at her own suggestion, eager to sell it to him. “But she doesn’t wear such clothes,” he said, skeptical of how she’d receive it. “I don’t think—” 

“Lord Renly would be pleased to see her in one at our betrothal feast,” she went on encouragingly. “And if it pleases him, it would please her, I’m sure.” 

_Renly._

Jaime finished the remaining wine in his goblet. It all had to boil down to Renly, the beauty, eventually.

“Ser Jaime, if you feel it’s a bad idea—” 

“Blue would be nice—” he thought aloud, drifting into a mental picture of the wench dressed in the colour that favoured her the most “—with sapphire-like gems embedded in the threadwork.”

Margaery gave him an appreciative nod. “Blue, it is, then. You have an eye for beauty, Ser Jaime. Why don’t I send the head seamstress to her for measurements whilst you pick the fabric?”

“Just don’t tell her it’s from me,” he requested, remembering the last time he’d tried to give her a dress.

After lunch, they parted ways, and by the time Jaime returned to his chambers, he was flooded by bales and bales of cloth brought in one after the other. He picked the one closest to her eyes, convinced it would do the trick. Renly wasn’t someone who would fall for her at first sight, but this would make sure he’d be unable to ignore her. And if he did bestow her with his complete attention, it would prove the nasty rumours wrong. 

On the other hand, if he did show an inclination towards Loras—he could deal with the problem when— _if_ it struck. 

+++++

“Ser Jaime.”

Jaime quit idly swinging his wooden stick and received her with a bow and a quick kiss to her hand. “Lady Margaery, I didn’t expect you here. I waiting for Brienne—to begin our morning practice—”

“I know.” She bent to pick up the spare sword he’d brought along. “I just came here to—” holding it loosely, she swished and flicked it in an aggressive, violent sort of way. 

“Careful, there.” Jaime ducked away from the tip just in time. “That’s not the way to hold a sword. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Lowering the blade, she stepped closer. “Show me how it’s done.”

Getting behind her, Jaime placed his left hand on her slender waist. Careful to keep a gap between their bodies, he brought his right hand on hers. “Like this—” he corrected her grip to secure the limply hanging sword in her hand “—the pressure has to be just right so you don’t drop it when struck—”

A loud cough drew him away from her.

“If you’re busy I can come back later.” One hand on her hips and the other caressing her sword, the wench was glaring at him. “You didn’t bother to tell me you’re otherwise occupied today, Ser Jaime. Had I known, I wouldn’t have come.”

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Margaery graciously admitted. “I was not to barge in on your morning routine—” with a lady-like grace, she set aside her sword to where it had been lying “—I just came here to talk to Ser Jaime about—” she met his eyes “—what we spoke of during lunch yesterday. But now that you’re already here, Lady Brienne, I won’t keep you waiting.”

With a parting smile, she was gone.

He readied himself to begin, but Brienne stood where she was, frowning at the ground. “Wench?”

“I’d rather be going, too. To find other ways to spend my time,” she muttered, directing her glare at him. “You seemed to be enjoying her company too much to put your mind into training today. Like that day, you’re distracted—”

“—and you sound quite jealous,” he teased, deliberately egging her on, her reaction amusing him. “You—”

“Why the hell would I be jealous?” Her scowl spoke the language of disapproval, not envy. “This is a training yard, not the place for such romantic conversations that ought to be held in private.”

“All she asked was for me to correct her grip. There was nothing private or romantic about it,” he argued. “But I do understand your anger. You’re miffed because she happened to eat into our training time, disheartened that Renly isn't here—”

“What did she come here for?” Frown lines, deep and distinct, occupied her forehead. “She could’ve picked another place and time to talk to you. You’re all hers—for the entire day except this hour you spend with me. And if she’s planning to play audience to us everyday—”

“Today was an exception, wench. She had something of importance to discuss—”

“—which, unfortunately for you, I happened to butt into.” They had not even started, yet, her cheeks began to acquire faint patches of pink. “If you wish to run after her and finish your conversation, I’m not going to hold you back. Although, I’d advise you to keep such _intimate_ matters to yourselves, indoors, if you don’t want people walking into you—” 

“I was teaching her how to hold a sword. There’s nothing intimate—”

“The way you touched her, your hand on hers—”

“That wasn’t intimate. This—” he crept behind her and wrapped an arm around her, his hand pressing into her stomach, pulling her to his chest in a gentle motion whilst his other hand glided along hers, fingers kissing her skin with slow, delicate touches before mating with hers “—would probably be intimate, wench.” He leaned in to take in the scent of her hair, letting his lips hover over her ear as he softly exhaled down her neck. “Margaery had come here to talk to me about you,” he breathed, possessed by an unnecessary urge to correct her misunderstanding. 

Her fingers twitched. “About me?”

“About your name day.” Seeing sense in admitting it to her, he couldn’t keep the secret anymore. “The seamstress who came last night to take your measurements—”

“You sent her, I know.” 

“How did you—” 

“ _Blue is a good colour on you_ —didn’t you once tell me that, Jaime?” Her grip wavered under his fingers, and he could feel her rhythmic breathing, her back, heaving against his chest. “I refused to accept your gift then—”

“I’m hoping you won’t deny me the privilege this time, my lady,” he whispered in her ear. “Allow us to celebrate your name day.”

“I will accept your gift, if you stop addressing me as _your lady_. That right lies with the woman you’re soon to wed—” 

“That, I'm afraid, I cannot comply with. I will continue to call you _my lady_ , my lady,” he playfully went on, "because—"

“I was told I could find you here.”

They jumped apart at the intervention to find Loras Tyrell eyeing them with interest.

Jaime nodded. “Ser Loras.”

“Ser Jaime,” the younger knight returned the courtesy, before giving Brienne a slight nod, “Lady Brienne.” He turned to Jaime again. “I wanted to talk about the security arrangements for the wedding. But if this isn’t the right time—” he gave Brienne a half-smile “—I can come back later—”

“I—um—” Brienne stammered, her face the colour of a ripe tomato, “I was just leaving, Ser Loras. Your matters are of far more importance than this.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“So this means we haven’t met substantial success in any of our attempts so far.” 

In a foul mood, Olenna began pacing again, her granddaughter at her arm. At her age, such high levels of anxiety were nothing short of a killer—each such moment bringing her a step closer to death, but there was nothing she could do to help it either. The alarming prospect of Margaery marrying the Kingslayer, however, warranted action—urgent and effective—and not wasteful laments of their plans not taking off. 

“I tried asking him in many different ways,” Margaery reported, “pushing and prodding him more than I had intended to, but just like her—” she shook her head in disappointment “—he wouldn’t admit it in plain words, although, I could see it in his eyes.” 

“They’re idiots, these two,” Olenna snapped, irked that they were incapable of sensing the obvious. “She tried her best, too, dismissing him as an acquaintance and a—” 

“I did, however, plant a few things that might help our plan grow,” Margaery said, a slow smile lighting up her face. “Brienne’s name day approaches and I have managed to convince Ser Jaime to give her a lovely gift.”

Olenna screwed her eyes, the intent still unclear. “What good will that be?”

“Ser Jaime is a man, grandmother,” Margaery explained with a smug gleam in her eyes, “and which man wouldn’t swoon when he sets eyes on the woman he loves in a beautiful garment of his choice?”

Olenna wrung her hand, proud and smiling in appreciation. “And if he is not already in love with her, he will, soon, fall for her.” Her smile faded when she recalled Brienne’s stubborn words. “But what about her? She seems to be obsessed with Renly to such an extent that she resists even the thought of looking at the Kingslayer—”

“Oh, she isn’t far behind,” Margaery revealed. “This morning I happened to _walk in_ to talk to Ser Jaime, and when I deliberately led him on to touch me, Lady Brienne made a timely appearance—of course, I did plan well enough for her to catch us red-handed and—”

“And?”

“Jealousy loomed large in her eyes—fiery and intense,” Margaery told her triumphantly. “If I had lingered around them a moment longer, her gaze would’ve razed me to the ground.” 

“Your little mischief, my dear, brings another thing to my mind,” Olenna thought aloud, an idea to further this web taking shape in her head. “On Lady Brienne’s name day, you must tell Ser Jaime that you wish to take him and Lady Brienne out, to show them the splendor of the Reach.”

Margaery narrowed her eyes. “What good will it be if I accompany them?”

“Oh, you won’t be going, my dear,” Olenna explained, the scene unfurling in her mind’s eye, “You will _fall ill_ and withdraw from the outing at the last minute,” she went on, answering Margaery’s confused look. “But they will be compelled to go on, because you will express regret for your absence and wish for the day to go on, regardless, and for them to spend time in each other’s company.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's name day.

Jaime brought her hand to his lips. “Wish you a long life full of love and happiness, wench,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to her shaking fingers.

He had touched her countless times in their younger years, while sparring, when they’d enjoyed knocking the hell out of each other. But lately, the way he had swayed her to a dancing step that night, held her when she had walked in on him and Margaery and this harmless kiss, just a courtesy a gentleman would bestow upon a lady—all this was beginning to cloud her head, evoking a strange tingling deep down inside her—the reason for which, she couldn’t quite fathom. 

“That was new,” Brienne remarked, when he let go of her hand. “You never did it before—”

“Never felt like it before,” he quipped, promptly spontaneous as usual. “And you might as well make it a habit of bearing with it, my lady—”

“Why?” Every time he called her _my lady,_ he touched a part of her. Most people, despite her rebuttal, addressed her by her noble title, but when it came from Jaime, it felt nothing like that at all. He’d done that often when she was a girl, but only to tease and irk her, but now that it lacked the usual mocking lilt that went with it, she didn’t know what to make of her reaction to it.

“You have to get used to being treated like a lady. Once you’re wed to Renly—” 

“You’re only assuming that will happen—”

“It will—” Stopping short, he looked her up and down, and she squirmed when his eyes absorbed every stitch, every stone and every inch of detail on her gown. 

“Jaime—”

“When Renly sees you like this—” a genial smile flickered on his lips “—he’s going to swoon—”

She burst out laughing. “You must stop exaggerating, Jaime. This is taking things a bit too far—”

“You know me, wench,” he said, the smile fading away to an intense look. “I mince no words, state things as they are.” He opened the little box he’d brought with him and held out the most exquisite sapphire she’d set her eyes on. “And this—” before she could object, he placed it around her neck and turned her to face the mirror “—is another humble gift I'm counting on you to accept, my lady.”

Awestruck and mesmerised, she brought her fingers to the gem. “This—”

“—belonged to my mother.” Holding the chain around her neck, he fastened the clasp. “And I felt it must belong to—”

“I can't have this. It is your wife-to-be's.” Albeit her reluctance to accept the priceless jewel, her heart slid down a few notches. If it was part of the Lannister heirloom, she wasn’t the rightful recipient. “Or your sister's—”

“Cersei has no interest in it,” he explained, bringing his hand over hers to hold the pendant to her throat. “And it is Margaery’s wish, too, that you must have it—” 

She frowned. “The dress, this necklace—” While it failed to strike her that day, now it was all beginning to hit her. “They're trying their best to push you and me together—that’s what she’s been aiming at since you came here.”

Sighing, he took a seat at the edge of her bed. “If Margaery doesn’t want me, there’s nothing I can do, Brienne, except speak to father and call off this alliance.” 

The hollow emptiness in his tone pricked her, telling her how much he desired the pretty rose. “Give it a while. She’ll come around,” she said soothingly, sitting beside him. “She will not be able resist you for long. No woman ever has—”

“You have.” He shuffled towards her, sliding his hand to hers, his fingertips grazing hers, green eyes attempting to extract the truth in her heart. “You didn’t care a damn for my looks, Brienne.”

Brienne had no answer but an unexpected jolt in the stomach—something that sprang up on her out of nowhere. Jaime was attractive, every woman’s beautiful dream. To her dismay, she had to admit that since the day they had met at Highgarden, she had been far from immune to the charming web he wove around himself. It was only the unkind truth that a man like him wouldn’t bear to look twice at her and her own burning ache for Renly that had helped her move around him unaffected.

“Brienne?”

“I do think that you’re handsome—” she started, unable to entirely lie.

“But Renly is the one who appeals to you,” he finished, and Brienne allowed him to conclude so, relieved that he couldn’t see through her confusion. “Why, then, do you fear Margaery and her grandmother’s schemes?”

“You’re right.” She had to smile at his optimism. “And the more we resist, the more doubts we’ll end up raising—” she recalled her flustered reaction to Ser Loras’ sudden presence that morning “—the more fuel we’ll end up adding to the fire.”

“But no matter how hard they try, they’ll never be able to change a thing between us,” he reflected, “so we’d rather stop worrying about it and play along to find out how far they go.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be surprised to see that your stand remains the same at the end of all this, when we emerge unscathed out of all they’re planning to put us through.” She gave his hand a gentle press. “Margaery, by then, by her own will and the result of your persistent wooing, will be yours whilst Lady Olenna will have no choice but to consent.”

“Only if we both don’t end up falling for each other before that, Brienne.”

She got up, dismissing him with a soft laugh, knowing how far-fetched the possibility was.

“You haven't taken off the necklace,” he shrewdly observed. “Does this mean you accept the gift, my lady?”

Overwhelmed, she clasped the sapphire to her throat. “It’s an honour, Jaime.”

That brought them to the end of the subject and they went down to breakfast together, only to find Margaery nursing a bandaged foot and an apologetic look on her lovely face. 

“I’m afraid you must go on without me,” she insisted, as soon as she and Lady Olenna had expressed their name day wishes to Brienne. “There’s so much you’ll want to see—” she enthusiastically began planning as they started eating “—the briar maze, the meadows, the rose gardens, the Sept—” her eyes widened, and so did her smile “—you could also pay a visit to one of the nearby villages. If you leave right away, you can be back for supper.” 

Brienne just smiled politely and nodded, knowing better than to resist, for if they did, this would give way to another mischievous ploy and another after that.

+++++

Despite this being gently thrust upon them, they did have a wonderful day. Highgarden was heaven in the realm of men, every inch of it, thriving and bountiful, as if the gods had blessed its inhabitants with prosperity for generations to come. And away from the watchful eyes of their hosts, Brienne felt free—she could be herself without the fear of someone overhearing or walking in on them. 

Roses, she had decided to avoid, but the rest of the wonders of this plentiful land, they had their fill of, and tired and famished by sundown they stepped in to try the culinary delights of one of the most popular inns around here. And by the time the food arrived, their stomachs were rumbling. Everything was delicious—the salads, the pies, the fruit, the bread, soft, melting in the mouth—for a while, neither of them spoke, filling their bellies, the only thing intent they had.

“To the future lady of Storm’s End,” Jaime said, raising his goblet to her. “May she live long and raise her many sons and daughters—”

Brienne choked on her wine when a fleeting vision of a blond, green-eyed little girl appeared in her mind, knocking the wind out of her lungs. 

“What’s the matter, Brienne?” Eyes twinkling as though he’d read her mind, Jaime refilled their drinks. “Did I say something wrong?” 

Still shaken, she feebly shook her head.

“You look pale.” He reached to place a palm on her forehead, the playfulness in his eyes giving way to concern. “If you’re feeling sick—”

“I’m fine,” she managed, collecting herself and taking a huge gulp to taper the shock. “We must hurry if we have to make it back to the castle before midnight.” 

They went back to finishing their meal in silence, although, the bread now felt like carpet, and the fruit, tasteless. Food had turned into a distraction, a helpful excuse to avoid conversation and give her some time to mull over the unexpected flash in her head. An aftereffect of the Tyrells’ soon-to-fail plan, she put it down as, and a sip or two of wine later, she felt better—fit to face him again.

“Listen—” he stuck close to her when they made for their horses, his hand on her arm as ready to hold her if she collapsed “—if I happened to inadvertently say something to offend you—”

“You didn’t.” She looked into his eyes to assure him nothing was wrong with her. “I’m not upset or angry with you, Jaime.”

The teasing half-crescent of a smile was back. “The thought of making those heirs got you weak-kneed and dizzy, huh?”

She looked away, blushing, making haste to push away another jolting flash of herself, naked in Jaime’s arms, sighing and moaning, crying out his name.

“Tell me, wench,” he mercilessly went on, his company, the cool night air and the wine rushing away in her blood doing strange things to her logic. “If you and I had ended up together—”

She turned sharply.

“Only a passing thought, obviously,” he clarified, a reassuring nod accompanying his words. 

She continued walking without answering.

“How many children would you have wanted?”

A golden haired little lion, as handsome as his father, joined the girl in her head, the two of them knocking swords, bickering, each trying to better the other. “I haven’t given it any consideration,” she lied, thinking if she did, the vision might go away. “You and I—”

“—exist only in the Tyrells’ imagination,” he replied, eyes on the road.

 _You, in Margaery’s arms, would be how it ends,_ she concluded in her head, _like it’s meant to be_ . _And I—_

The thought unfinished, her breath caught in her chest when she untied her horse, a haziness, an uneasy fog spreading within her. Confusion had become her constant companion since Jaime’s return to her life.

They rode away into the night. He said nothing after that, and everytime she stole a glance at him, she found him gazing into the darkness, lost in thought—devising means to court Margaery, of course, for what else could be consuming his attention like this? For his sake, she had to hold herself, to keep her thoughts under a tight leash. She could not afford to err, for any such mistake would leave them vulnerable to Lady Olenna’s crafty mind—

“Fuck!”

Following his lead, she, too, came to a halt, the roadblock only now visible to her. The width of the street covered with a heap of boulders, the path ahead was completely shut with no room for even a man to walk through.

“We could turn around and take the other road,” she suggested, wanting to get back at the earliest.

“It’s too risky at this time of the night.” Jaime turned back his horse. “We have to return to the village, try to find rooms for the night at the same inn.”

With no ground for a protest nor a better suggestion, she trudged along by his side, ruing their ill-luck. This wasn’t the way she’d expected to end her name day—spending the night in the middle of nowhere with only him to keep her company—

“Don’t look so scared, Brienne.”

Even in the faint light of the torches in the distance, she could note the amusement in his eyes. “I’m not—”

“We’re not going to sleep on the same bed.” He chuckled. “Imagine if we did, though—” he trailed away, squinting in scrutiny. “You wouldn’t be able to resist my charms, my—”

“I have resisted you for years,” she retorted, hoping her made-up confidence would prevent her from slipping into any untoward thoughts. “A night with you isn’t going to be the death of me.”

+++++

_“I am yours, Brienne,” he gasped, barely audible, his strength ebbing away, life draining out of him. “I will always be yours.”_

_“No!” she sobbed, holding him to her chest. “I can’t let you go, Jaime I—”_

“—love you.”

Brienne sat up, her breathing heavy and her pulse soaring through the roof. Her tears were real, she realized, when she brought her hand to her cheek. Wasting not another moment, she leapt out of bed and out of her room, pounding on his door with all her might. 

She had to see him. Now. To ascertain that he—

“Brienne?”

Without thinking, she flung her arms around his neck and threw herself on him. “Gods, you’re safe,” she burst out, holding him tightly, holding on to him as if his presence would ward off the ill-effects of the dream. His arms came around her and he pressed her to his chest, the comforting warmth of his body slowly beginning to ease her back to normalcy. “It was terrible, Jaime,” she croaked, letting her fingers trickle down to his back. “I saw you die in my arms.”

“It was just a nightmare, wench.” He rubbed her back, the gentle motion soothing her. “I’m fine, alive and well and holding you right here. Although, dying in your arms isn’t a bad way to—”

“Shut up,” she cried, her nails pressing into his skin as fresh tears threatened to invade her eyes. “If this is all a joke to you—”

Wanting to get away, she tried to wriggle out of his arms, but he pulled her back. “Not a joke, wench,” he breathed, his fingers pushing into her waist, his voice, soft and honeyed, the gentlest it had ever been. “I may have, once, been a piece of shit to you, but you know I’m not that man anymore. I could never jest with your feelings.”

And she let go of herself, of all that had been troubling her.

He was here, and she was with him, and what she’d been through was just a miserable dream. She let her hand slide up to his heart, the comforting thudding—steady and rhythmic, bringing hers down to fall to its beat, calming her down, relieving her pain. His chest, heaving and falling in a gentle swaying dance, urged hers to follow, as if telling her that her mind was safe now, away from the monsters that had dared to barge in without warning. She stayed in his arms until the bad feeling drained away, until the panic and icy ache in her chest dissolved—a different sort of ache taking its place—one that struck her in the pit of her belly, awakening her body and senses to the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her teats were beginning to stiffen in response to his firm muscles against her soft breasts, but she did nothing to withdraw the fingers that were tangled in his luscious golden mane, combing and caressing it. 

When his stubble rubbed against the soft skin of her neck, sparking off a wave of sensations all through her, when his warm breath burned her wherever it met her flesh, she extricated herself from his embrace, embarrassed—by her impulsive panic and with what his proximity was doing to her. 

“I—” she couldn’t look him in the eye “—I must go—”

Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her inside and closed the door. “You don’t look well, Brienne.” He cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing the tear tracks. “You’ve been crying—”

“It was the nightmare—perhaps, because I had a bit too much to drink last night,” she mumbled, trying to sound as normal as she could. “I should return to bed and let you sleep—”

“You’re not going anywhere, wench,” he commanded, his voice crisp and final. “I’d be a fool to leave you alone in this state.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream means nothing :) It's just a dream.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night unfolds... and so do Jaime's feelings.

“I can’t sleep anymore.” Brienne was still lingering by the door, eyes darting towards the knob off and on, as if looking to seize the first chance to get out of there. “Whereas you—”

“I’m going to be spending the rest of the night, tossing and turning.” Arms crossed to his chest, Jaime planted himself between her and the door, determined not to let her escape. “It’s a long way until morning. How do you propose we pass the time confined behind separate doors? By twiddling our thumbs and staring at the waning candle flames?” 

“By trying to go back to sleep—”

“—which is not going to happen,” he pointed out, exasperated, then softening his tone, added, “Stop being stubborn, Brienne.” Pale, with beads of perspiration dotting her forehead and upper lip, it was obvious she needed company—someone to hold her if she cracked again, to reassure and comfort her if the demons of her mind returned to haunt her. “We can sit and talk if you’d like that—” he racked his head for a subject that might ease her into staying back “—about Renly, if it pleases you.” He didn’t want to treat her like a weakling—a poor, frail thing who couldn’t look after herself, but he didn’t want to let her out of his sight, either, for fear of her succumbing to another such painful incident. 

Blue eyes, still moist from the ordeal and the puffy bags that held them down, met his, regretful and apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you in the middle of the night—”

“Who told you I’ve been asleep?” Woken with a jolt after a couple of hours of sleep, all he had been doing was counting, waiting, staring at the blank darkness in anticipation of the morning sun to emerge.

It was her turn to cross her arms to her chest, inquisitive and curious. “What kept you awake?” 

“I dreamed of you, too” he confessed, the recollection of what he’d seen making him bite his lip in frustration.

“Nightmare?” 

Averting her eyes, he shook his head.

 _Dreams. Desire and an unquenched thirst—desperate and needy. Visions of a certain wench, lips pressed to mine, our bodies entwined in one another—something I would have to forget, for you belong to another, be given away to him sooner if not later._ Pleasurable, yet, forbidden, the effect on him was strong and lasting, the arrival of his teary-eyed friend and her unexpected decision to imprison herself in his arms making him relive it all over again.

“Worried that Lady Olenna might get the better of us?”

“Yes,” he lied, glad to be handed a ready excuse on a platter. “I try not to bother too much about it but—” He let go, not wanting to dwell on it. “Come on in, Brienne.”

This time, she did. And as soon as she followed him in, Jaime was struck by an idea to divert her. “Let’s spar—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is neither the time nor the place—”

“How about some dancing then?” To this, her reaction wasn’t as explosive as earlier, just mild surprise and hesitation. Taking advantage of her deliberation, he took her by the hand and led her to the centre of the room, the only part of the room free of furniture. “We never got a chance after that night.”

“But here—”

He silenced her with a tug on her hand, drawing her closer. “Why not?” 

“No music.” Her voice was hushed, eyes, soft and dreamy, lost in a future with her pretty boy, no doubt.

There wasn’t a need for any. Without effort, they glided into step, holding hands, moving left, then right, slow, speeding up after a few imaginary beats, then dropping hands and switching sides before they came back to face each other again. “You move well,” he whispered, taking her hands again, observing her as they repeated the same in a rhythmic cycle, the knight and the lady, coming together, stepping apart, then advancing towards each other again. “Hardly feels like you have not done this for ages.” 

“And you seem to have mastered the art of exaggeration,” she teased, slightly out of breath. “Whatever happened to the famous cutting sarcasm—”

His left hand fell to her waist, and she fell silent, the abrupt change in his stance taking her by surprise. “You still don’t seem to believe my words,” he said, telling her with his eyes that he meant every bit of it. 

_Maybe if Renly showered the same praise on you,_ he was about to lash out, but checked himself on time, regretting the rising bitterness in his chest. He didn’t want to ruin this magical moment. Instead, he tightened his grasp on her waist—

Blue eyes doubled in size, her nails digging into his shoulder. “That’s not the way the steps go—”

He dragged her closer, the dance forgotten. “Renly will be arriving tomorrow,” he stated the unnecessary, realizing with a jolt that this would be the last he would have the wench to himself.

She nodded. “And the week after that we celebrate your betrothal, with your union with Lady Margaery soon to follow.” 

And Jaime could see it, clear as the moonless sky. Two weddings—one born out of love and the other his duty towards his father. At least, Brienne would be happy should it all work as planned with Renly, her love and patience bearing fruit after years of being shunned and discarded as unfit to be a wife.

“If all goes well, your wedding with Renly should happen alongside mine,” he went on, hoping the sense of expectation would alleviate the ill-effect of her dream. “He would place his cloak on your shoulders—” for a fleeting second, the Baratheon sigil reshaped itself into a lion, the golden-haired groom bringing the bride under his protection, draping in flaming red, the garment billowing in the breeze that flowed into the room “— _I am hers, and she is mine,_ he would say,” he recited, lost in a world thousand realms away.

“‘ _I am his and he is mine’,_ Margaery would promise you,” she continued, the dream shining bright in her eyes. “Her wrist bound to yours seals her fate with yours—” 

“—just as your bond with Renly is forged—”

“—from this day until the end of our days,” they both chimed in unison.

“And after the Septon proclaims your union, Renly would place a kiss upon your lips—” his breath trapped in his chest, he leaned, edging his face to hers “—soft and tender—” 

“And Margaery would look deep into your eyes—” her gaze was tangled in his and he could see in them, the candle flame dancing in the wind, joyous and celebrating “—waiting with bated breath for you to proclaim your love, to—”

“—show you, with just this sweet touch how much he wants you—” he inched closer, his lips hovering over hers, just short, just shy “—to protect you and keep you safe from monsters in this world and within.”

He went very still, tied to the enchanting pull of her eyes, freezing this dream-like moment in his mind, knowing they would soon wake up and everything would go back to where it ought to be. A push from his body urged him to take the next step, to capture her lips, to immortalize this forever—

It took a distant hoot of an owl somewhere outside to show him his place, to throw him back to the realization that this was Renly and Margaery they were talking about.

“With that kiss as his sweet declaration of love,” he murmured, reluctantly letting go of her, “you will be his.”

_And lost to me forever._

+++++ 

Jaime opened his eyes to a mop of yellow hair spread across his chest, a soft warm body curled up against him and an erection that had nothing to do with his oncoming marriage and bride-to-be. He spent a while feasting his eyes on the sleeping woman in his arms, his senses, with every passing second, becoming astutely conscious of her body, a pleasurable ache building up at the pit of his belly, throwing him back to the delightful dream he’d been blessed with. Her gentle breathing did no good to his, taking in gulps of air becoming a laboured chore. The press of her breasts against his hard muscles clouded his head, leaving him dizzy and weak, the tiniest of movements she made—the way she wedged her leg between his and the scraping of her nails against his chest hair sending his cock twitching in anticipation.

“I love you,” she purred in her sleep, the sweetest smile appearing on her lips when she brushed her mouth to his chest, her arm going around him as she snuggled closer.

“I hope he does too,” he fervently wished, for not a shadow of sadness he could bear to see in those eyes, every drop of tear she shed, a dagger to his heart. “I hope he deserves you.” Unable to stop himself he pressed a kiss to her hair. “I hope you both—”

She stirred awake and looked up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, face radiant with a lovely morning glow. “How did I—” Glancing down at her shirt, its laces askew and undone in part, she slid out of his embrace and sat up. “I’m sorry—” Embarrassed, she flattened her hair and turned away to straighten her tunic. “I didn’t mean to be a bother,” she mumbled, facing him when she’d restored herself to her usual guarded self.

“You just fell asleep on my chest. That’s no bother—”

“I must go and collect my things.” She was already at the door, flustered, barely able to look at him.

“You have no things, Brienne,” he reminded her, her troubled response making it clear that she was struck by a pang of guilt.

“I will meet you downstairs.” 

She was gone, leaving him with no sign of acknowledgement that last night had happened.

 _A feeling of guilt, probably,_ he surmised, his dislike for Renly going up with every passing day and every minute that brought them closer to the fateful moment he’d have to see eye to eye with him. 

+++++ 

“Ser Jaime,” the young man acknowledged with a cocky tilt of his head and a smile, Jaime assumed, was all knowing.

“Lord Renly,” Jaime returned the courtesy, for Brienne’s sake, keeping his sarcasm on a tight leash, although restraining himself when he had a barrage of emotions to express was not the most comfortable sensation.

“I came to hear that you’re here to wed Lady Margaery.” The taunt in his voice made Jaime want to pull out his sword and rip away his tongue. “Strange decision, I must say, particularly after—” he stopped, the smile getting more crooked, the glint in his eyes making it clear what he meant.

“And you’re here for—” Jaime pretended to dig his mind, stealing a glance at Loras Tyrell who lingered in the opposite end of the room, engrossed in deep conversation with his grandmother. “What exactly are you here for, Lord Renly?”

Renly’s eyes tailed his as they flitted around the Tyrell knight, and Jaime watched him carefully, wondering if his seemingly subtle gesture would prod the young lord into reacting. But a smug expression was all he received. “I’m here for Lady Brienne,” he revealed, his purpose taking Jaime by surprise. “Lord Selwyn had written to me—” he cocked his brow “—didn’t lady Brienne tell you?”

The sinking sensation, despite him trying to push up his mood, was back again. “She did.” 

“Then you would be glad to hear that I have agreed to give the alliance due consideration,” he announced, “and I am here to—” He rose, craning his neck to look past Jaime. “There she is.”

“Lady Brienne.” Jaime got up, making way for her to join them. 

“Ser Jaime,” she said, her tone uncharacteristically girlish and breathy. “Lord Renly.” 

Renly, an epitome of chivalry, fished his hand out to meet hers. “My Lady,” he said, pressing a theatrical kiss to her knuckles.

“I—” Jaime felt out of place, unwanted, his presence suddenly inappropriate. “I must be going.” 

As he made himself scarce to allow them some privacy, he heard Renly tell her, “If it is not too much trouble, could you accompany me to the gardens, my lady?” 

“Of course, I would,” he heard Brienne gush, and the two of them, happily smiling and her arm linked in his, made their way to the exit.

And Jaime was left watching wistfully, a part of him wishing them well, wanting no more than eternal bliss for his dear friend, while another, closely guarded part of his mind—

“Ser Jaime.”

Irritation joining his confusion, he turned to meet the owner of the voice. “Lady Olenna.”

“I came here to talk to you—” she gestured to a pair of chairs, and he obliged, taking one of them after she was seated “—about you and Lady Brienne—”

“Lady Brienne is busy, admiring the beauty of your lovely castle in the company of the man she loves, discussing her future life with him,” Jaime cut her with relish. “With the grace of the fates, she will soon be happily married—not to me, but—”

“You’re right,” the old woman immediately agreed, her tone subdued. “I happened to misunderstand, to underestimate your bond. I apologize for conspiring with my granddaughter to sabotage your beautiful friendship.” 

Jaime gaped in surprise, her admittance to having erred throwing him off-guard. “You—”

“I had that roadblock arranged,” she confessed with a sigh, “to make sure you spend the night away from here and together. The dress, the necklace—it was all to make you change your mind, to nudge you into Brienne’s arms, an old woman’s hope that what began when you were children blossoms into matrimony.” Dejected, she shook her head. “I thought if you were thrown into each other’s company, you might get close enough to—” 

“But you failed,” he gloated victoriously. “Nothing happened last night. Brienne’s still a maiden and I—”

“And you’re very much in love with Margaery,” she guessed with an apologetic smile. “You have my wholehearted consent, ser, and I will write to Lord Tywin that the wedding be celebrated as soon as we can arrange it.”

“B—but—” Jaime still couldn’t believe it “—I thought you were against—”

“Not anymore, my dear lad.” The ancient eyes granted him their approval. “I have come to the conclusion that I cannot find Margaery a better husband. You will dote on her, I’m sure, making every wish of hers come true before she can spell it out. The Queen of the Rock, you will hail her to be.”

“Renly—” he went on, still confused “—didn’t you want him to marry Margaery—”

“I must admit I did,” she said sheepishly, “but your dear friend is in love with him and he too—” her eyes darted towards the exit where the pair had been moments back “—appears to be inclined in her direction.” She turned to Jaime again, beaming. “To strengthen their bond I have proposed Lady Brienne and her handsome husband-to-be spend all of tomorrow with just one another for company, talking and getting to know each other whilst taking a tour of the scenic beauty of this place—”

She kept going, elaborating the plan and the arrangements she’d made, but the rest of it was a blur—a nightmare, and Jaime found himself burdened with the possibilities of what this little outing might turn out to be. 

“Should tomorrow end well and the gods be willing, I would want nothing more than for Lady Brienne to don the Baratheon cloak when you place yours on Margaery,” Olenna expressed her wish with a blissful smile. “Wouldn’t that be absolutely marvelous, Ser Jaime?”

With great effort, he nodded, not quite sure if he wanted to become a part of this rose garden anymore. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day apart has them thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note : Loads of pining ahead.

“What about the pink dress you gave me?”

Dragged out of his distraction, Jaime looked up from his tea. “What about it?”

He found himself the target of an appraising, analyzing gaze. “I was thinking of wearing it for our betrothal feast two days hence.” Margaery sat back and took a delicate bite of her cake. “What do you think?”

“Absolutely lovely,” he absently remarked, mind far away again, memories of his blue-eyed wench clad in the colours of the ocean swimming all over his head. “Blue is a good colour on you, my lady,” he went on in a trance, recalling how perfectly the sapphire sat on her neck. “Goes well with your eyes.”

“My eyes are _not_ blue, Ser Jaime—” 

“My apologies,” Jaime mumbled, flustered by his embarrassing blunder. “I—” 

“You look like you would prefer to be elsewhere.” She set down her knife, big brown eyes trying to read more than there was in his mistake. “Like you’d rather spend this lovely sunny afternoon with someone else.”

“Not at all,” he shot back, alarmed at how carelessly he had drifted away more than once in such a short time. “Sorry again,” he guiltily apologized. “Pink and gold brings out the radiance in your skin,” he complimented her, forcing an appreciative smile. “You would be the prettiest woman of them all.”

She smiled and tucked a lock of her elaborate curl behind her ear. “You flatter me too much.”

He returned her abashed reaction with another painstakingly induced indulgent smile. “I state nothing but the truth, my lady.”

“It is going to be wonderful, isn’t it?” Margaery purred, eyes lighting up with delight. “You and I, Lady Brienne and Lord Renly—”

“Speaking of them, when are they expected to return?” he asked, before he could push back the anxious anticipation in his voice. “They have been gone since morning.”

“Oh, they aren’t expected until dusk,” she informed him, gleeful on their behalf. “They have a lot to talk about, a lot to exchange.” She gave him a suggestive smile. “They go back a long way, these two, and their mutual attraction for each other.”

 _Mutual attraction._ Something about her assumption took Jaime back to last night when he spied Renly heading in the direction of Loras’ bedchambers. While that could not be taken as conclusive evidence to anything, given the stories floating around about the pretty boy’s proclivities, it certainly needed some careful consideration. Deciding Brienne definitely needed to know about it, whether or not it carried any serious significance, he made a mental note to inform her as soon as she returned.

“Lord Renly, I surmise, would make a grand proposal to her,” Margaery kept going with enthusiasm, “and Lady Brienne, I’m sure, given her deep affection for him, is bound to consent in the blink of an eye.” 

_And here I am, sitting here and watching while my friend is about to step into a life of probable misery._ But was Renly’s questionable reputation the only reason for his uneasiness?

“Ser Jaime—”

“Yes, my lady.” He returned to his companion though his thoughts were far away, amidst his friend and the man she would soon marry—the prince of her childhood dreams who would have, by now, swept her off her feet and sought more than just her gushing consent. A dreamlike union in a place that was heaven on this earth—this was going to be the perfect beginning to a life the wench deserved.

Jaime drew in a deep breath. The light in those brilliant eyes were the only reason he wished for this to go through without any hindrance, for Renly’s habits to be clean. A part of him even hoped for Renly to fall as deeply in love with her as she was with him, to become the lover she’d grown up concluding she could never have.

 _He isn’t that bad,_ a reluctant corner of him kept reminding him from time to time. _He rescued her by dancing with her, and holds her in high regard._

By the time they returned, they would be a couple, and Renly would have the right to drown in those astonishing eyes, to hold her hand, to kiss those lips, to peel away layers of her clothing and draw her gently to his marital bed— 

_But he can never love her as much as I do._

Jaime sat up, the blunt revelation of the truth within him jolting him out of the false reality he’d been trying to create all these days. His father’s decision, his courtship of Margaery Tyrell—it had all been an means of escape, a way to cope with another chunk of blunt truth that—

_She can never love me._

He leapt to his feet. “Apologies, my lady, but I must take leave of you at this very instant.”

Worry crept into her eyes as she got up. “Is anything wrong?”

_Nothing. And everything._

He shook his head. “I just—remembered something important,” he lied, wanting, desperately, to slink away into solitude. 

Taking her leave, he ambled back along the passages, heart heavy, feet barely cooperative.

 _Renly, it has always been, ever since he’d stolen her heart with his gentle chivalry._

_A friend, I am. A friend, I will always be._

But was he strong enough to pledge himself to another woman? While he couldn’t have Brienne, he wouldn’t _want to_ have another.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Why do you wear blue so often?”

Brienne looked up, surprised by the nature of the question. “Because—” _it goes well with my eyes._ She drifted away to another day, another time, another man who had, with a charming smile that had the power to leave the prettiest of maidens helplessly swooning in his arms, stated this with effortless ease. “Because I just happen to have a preference for the colour,” she replied, settling for a safe answer that wouldn’t attract further questions.

“It does match your eyes,” he observed, gazing deep into them, “but I wouldn’t exactly say it is the best on you.”

“Someone once told me it is,” she absently blurted out. “He—”

“The Kingslayer—” 

“ _Jaime_ ,” she cut him, irked by the naked insult in his tone and words. “His name is Ser Jaime. He is a knight, my lord, and one of the most honourable there can be.”

Renly smirked in disdain and disapproval. “If _honourable_ has now changed to refer to sister-fuckers—”

“Please do not insult him,” she hissed, biting the inside of her cheek. Struggling to deal with her clenched stomach and rising temper, she glanced down at her plate and counted from one to five, and when her anger had dissipated, she looked up to face him again. “Ser Jaime is a friend, Lord Renly, and I have as much regard for him as I do for you.”

 _Perhaps, more. Perhaps, more than regard._

Renly’s shoulders tensed and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He despises me,” he spat, and she could sense the bitterness in the tone. The animosity was mutual. “He does not find me worthy of your hand.”

Mellowing down, she offered him a truce in the form of a smile. “With time, I’m sure he will.” 

After a moment’s consideration, Renly smiled back, and within a while he was back to his usual amicable self. “We’re not here to talk about Jaime Lannister, are we?” he teased, the honeyed tenderness returning to his voice as he reached across the table to touch her hand. “How soon will your lord father be able to get here, my lady?”

Brienne squinted her eyes in question.

“For our wedding, of course,” Renly explained, chuckling at her confusion. “If we must wed the same day as Lady Margaery and your friend—”

He began talking about the various events leading to their wedding and about the day itself and how it would unfold, but Brienne was barely listening, her consciousness seeking the company of her subconscious, and yet again, delving into another similar evening at the same inn, another supper not unlike this, and the memorable night that had followed. It was Renly’s hand that enclosed hers this very moment, but another, it reminded her of, taking her back to when he had held her, when she swayed to a tune non-existent, when she had surrendered to his arms. A dance was all it was, yet, it felt like something else—

“And when the Septon gives the signal, I would place my cloak on your shoulders,” Renly was saying from somewhere across her.

 _Lannister Red,_ she noted, when she dug further into her mind, _with a lion adorning it as it adorns me._

“ _‘I am hers, and she is mine’_ , I would say,” he recited, mimicking the way he would say it on the day itself. “And in return, you would say—”

“I am his and he is mine,” Brienne whispered, fingers shaking around her knife as she pictured a very different scene in her head. _Although, he can never be mine. He belongs to another._

“After that, I would kiss you.”

“And I would surrender,” she murmured, recalling how close they had come that night to enacting it all out until good sense prevailed and he held back. Jaime had pulled away, recovering from his alcohol-dulled mind, and she had resorted to confining herself to her corner of the bed, turning away from him knowing full well that she could never claim right to those lips. She had forced herself to sleep that night, telling herself every time thoughts of him and his presence beside her ticked her heart away, that she could never be the recipient of the affections of the man her gods had destined for her to, forever, be content with calling a friend. When dreams of him had crept beneath her eyes, she’d drowned herself in them, content while they had lasted, the sweetness of their union turning into harsh embarrassment the moment she’d woken up in his arms.

“When our lips part—” he squeezed her fingers “—I would look deep into your eyes and say—” his breathing tightening, he leaned closer “—I love you, Brienne.”

 _I love you too, Jaime,_ she swallowed in dejection, the lump in her throat growing in size. 

“The dance would follow,” he continued to foresee. “And not unlike our first, I would take you in my arms and twirl you around—”

Just like he did. There was no music that night, but it was the sweetest melody to touch her ears. And he would never do it again, for Margaery would be the sole claimant to his next dance and every dance that followed. 

“When the moment of the bedding arrives—”

Safe within the privacy of their bedchambers, Jaime would kiss her without restraint, his hand snaking to the nape of her neck, pulling her face to hers. And she would gladly relent, giving in to the burning wetness of his mouth, sighing gently as his tongue found hers, moaning deeply when he greeted it with a gentle bite. They would undress each other, slowly, gently, uncovering each bit of skin with anticipation and excitement. Then he would lay her on the bed, his fingers exploring her body, his mouth leaving hers to travel down her throat, leaving little bites on her tender skin, seeking and sucking her nipples. He would touch and kiss her until she was all wet and aching, his throbbing cock—

“Brienne?”

“I—” She looked up, flustered. “I’m sorry.” 

Renly was staring at her, his happiness and boyish excitement drained away. “Is something the matter? You look odd—”

“I can’t marry you.” It came out crudely before she could dress it up with less painful words. “I—I’m sorry I led you up to this, but I just can’t—can’t—” she got up, distress and agitation taking over her. “I can’t continue to pretend anymore that this is the life I desire.”

Renly got up, frowning. “Is this because the Kingslayer doesn’t approve of it?” 

“Jaime, not the Kingslayer,” she croaked, the overflowing emotions inside her beginning to clamp her down. “And it is because I love him.” She sniffed to ward off the tears threatening to tear down her walls. “He can never be mine, but I cannot belong to another man, either.”

The journey back to the castle was the longest she’d undertaken—at least, it felt so. Silence, dull and hanging heavily between them, they rode away, with him, understandably pissed off at being turned down this unceremoniously, and her, barely in a state of coherent thinking. 

As soon as they were back, with a curt bow and a fleeting kiss to her hand, Renly took leave of her to head back inside, and unwilling to return to the suffocation of her room, Brienne chose to wander the gardens, hoping some time with the greenery and the soothing moonlight would bring her some relief.

“There you are, wench.”

She froze in her tracks, racking her brain for quick excuses. Such was the state of her emotional defenses, that he was the last person she wanted to run into.

“Why aren't you with Lady Margery?” she snapped unnecessarily, the thought of him spending increasing amounts of time with his pretty lady bothering her beyond she could take it. “What brings you to the open at this hour?” 

“A day out with the pretty boy has brought about a glaring change in you, I can see,” he shot back in the same vein, the spark in his tone bearing the same sting as hers. “Has he wooed you with his sweet words and gentle kisses?” he inquired, green eyes blazing with the resentment he reserved only for Renly. “Has he promised you the world?” he went on, without waiting for her to react. “Has he made proclamations that _you_ are his world—” 

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

She tried to push past him but he put himself in her way. “He cannot bring himself to love you, wench,” he asserted, firm and determined. “I can fairly assume that he has only agreed to this alliance because—”

“I’m tired and not really interested in this conversation,” she feebly repeated, none of this relevant, none of this of any significance to her. “Now if you’ll let me leave—” 

“I have reasons to believe he is here for Loras Tyrell and not for you,” he bellowed, grabbing her arm. “He feels nothing for you,” he seethed, “nothing. And the sooner you snap out of this blind love for him—”

“I don’t care about all that any longer,” Brienne shouted back, jerking her hand away. “It doesn’t matter who he loves or beds because I no longer bear the intention of marrying him.” She made no attempt to steady her shaking voice. “I don’t want him. I don’t want this alliance. I don’t want marriage,” she thundered, all her frustration gushing out at the sight of the man she couldn’t have. “I’m leaving Highgarden tomorrow, Jaime,” she declared, taking her decision at that very second. “And I wish you well for a blissful married life ahead.”

Leaving a stunned Jaime gaping open-mouthed after her, she stormed out of there, not wanting to hear a single word about Renly or anything to do with love or marriage. 

Tonight would be the longest, loneliest night ever. And she had to, somehow, bring herself to sail through it, for that was the only way to get to a new day that would see her out of this mess. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation. A confession. And more.

_I don’t want him._

Jaime’s head was pounding. And so was his overworked heart.

The words kept circling his mind long after she’d thundered out of there, the intensity of her outburst striking him like a lit match to a haystack. How had a day out that should’ve strengthened the bond between a couple to be betrothed ended with such bitterness? Renly had his mind set that he would court and wed her. Why then—

Unless _she_ had been the one to—

But then, why would she? She’d always been in awe, in love with him since that magical dance he had obliged her with. Why, then, would she suddenly switch from being utterly smitten with him to completely against the prospect of a life with him, particularly now, when she’d come so close to having her wish fulfilled— 

_Unless,_ nudged a small voice inside his head, _she wishes something else. Unless she, too, has her heart set elsewhere—_

 _It cannot be,_ Jaime refused to believe, still staring into the bushes. _If she reciprocated my feelings, she would’ve_ —

 _Would she?_ the little corner of reason called out to him again. _She knows you’re betrothed to Margaery, and she knows not that you—_

 _I have to tell her then_ , he urged himself. Instinct pushed him to rush right away and make it known to her, to let his feelings gush out, unmitigated, uninhibited, no chains of her impending commitments to hold him back anymore. He bolted out of there as fast as his feet could carry him. _I can never love Margaery_ , he kept repeating to himself, taking two steps at a time up the stairway that led indoors. _I don’t want her, I don’t want anything to do with the Tyrells—_

He stopped short, then changed course and his destination to Lady Olenna’s study. He had to speak to her and Margaery first. 

“My ladies,” he greeted them, as soon as their guards had ushered him in.

“Ser Jaime,” Margaery acknowledged, beckoning to him to take a seat. “Please join us for a drink.”

His restless mind prodding him to get this over with, Jaime declined with a polite nod. “I’m here for an important matter.”

The older Tyrell fixed him with a hawkish gaze, almost if she’d been waiting for him to barge in with an untimely visit. Perhaps, like he’d suspected, all this was a part of their ruse—nudging Renly into wooing Brienne, sending them both on a day all to themselves—all of it appeared to be an elaborate trick to get him onto the right path, to get them both to listen to their hearts.

“I will not be in a position to marry you, my lady.” He looked his intended in the eye. This was the second promise he was breaking, and yet again at the crossroads of a decision, he’d chosen to side with his heart instead of what he was bound to abide by. “Forgive me.”

The smile Margaery was trying to smother with fake disappointment confirmed that this had been their wish all along. She didn’t want to just not marry him, it was evident she couldn’t get over her opinion, the resentment she’d been trying to mask with sweet smiles and gentle batting of her eyelashes, still there, lurking, ready to show its face. To have nothing to do with the Kingslayer, that had been her ultimate objective. And she had succeeded in her endeavours to ward him off.

“Why this change of mind, if I may ask?” she asked, still careful not to reveal her true feelings.

“I love Brienne.” It tumbled out in an instant, and Jaime was flooded with an immense sensation of relief when he heard it aloud. “I wish to wed her—”

“What about Renly?” Olenna continued to pretend ignorance. “They—”

“—have decided to part ways.” Jaime searched those ancient eyes, challenging her to counter him. “Surely, you must be aware of that even before I—”

“Come now, Ser Jaime,” she chided him like a mother would her disobedient son. “Are you complaining because I hatched a plot to point you in the direction of your deepest desires?”

“You set this trap so you wouldn’t have to turn down my father,” he lashed back, irate at how these women had manipulated them and toyed with their feelings for their own gains. “You’re wary of antagonizing Tywin Lannister. Isn’t it time to admit that, my lady?”

Olenna held his gaze, unfazed by his accusations. “Tell your Lord father it is _your_ wish to break ties with us—”

“Or what?” he fumed, tired of being forced to play her game. “Are you going to stand between Brienne and me? You don’t want that, do you? You want Renly—” He recalled the young man’s secret dalliance, glad that the wench had been spared of a future no brighter than a nightmare. “And you’re welcome to have him.”

“Very well,” she agreed, a piercing edge to her consent. “As long as you are the one to—”

“ _You_ will be the one to approach my father,” he reiterated, making himself clear. He’d had enough of being known as an oathbreaker for years. Not this time. Not when he’d been a pawn in a game tailored to others’ selfish ends. “ _You_ will tell him you wish to pursue an alliance with Renly. Let it be known who it was who had woven this intricate web, that you want nothing to do with the dishonourable Kingslayer—”

“You know I’m not going to do that,” the old woman answered, smugly determined. 

“What if I accidentally let slip delicious little bits of details about your grandson’s budding friendship with your new guest?” A flicker of worry flashed in those eyes, and he could see those wrinkled fingers grip her stick tighter. “Don’t deny it, my lady. I know you know it. And it won’t be long before rumours begin to take birth—”

“Are you threatening me?” 

Jaime shook his head. “All I’m saying is let’s settle this amicably.” With a short bow, he readied to take leave of the women, readied himself for a meeting far more important than this. ”Father will not hold this against you. That, I can assure you of.”

+++++

“You can keep hiding in there all night, wench,” he called out when she refused to let him in despite incessant knocks. “But eventually you’re going to have to get out—”

The door swung open, eyes, hurt and distressed, meeting his, longing to invite him in, yet bearing a certain restraint to them. “I hope you had a wonderful supper with _your lady_ —” 

“She is not _my lady_ ,” he shot back in correction, and when she slackened her hold on the door in surprise, he edged past her to shut them both in. “She never will be.”

Her deep gaze lingered on him as she pondered his words, searching his face for more. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever you meant by your outburst in the garden. And when you turned down Renly,” he answered, indirect, yet, to the point. “I always thought he was the man you loved. Why did you break it with him?”

“I—” She turned to the fire, watching the fire licking away the logs instead of facing him. “I realized I’m not in love with him.” 

The flames took over her eyes, dancing to their full splendour, and Jaime was suddenly hit upon the truth he’d failed to see for years. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Brienne, the beauty—his beauty. There was nothing about her he did not yearn for, nothing to restrain his undiluted and utmost devotion to her. No fitting words he could conjure would describe what she meant to him, everything that came to his head paling in comparison to what he felt for her.

“It’s not Margaery,” he softly informed her. She shifted slightly, a shiver, he could note, a clenching and flexing of her fingers. “I wish to marry for love, Brienne—” with a thumb and his forefinger to her chin, he tilted her face towards him “—not just to please my father and produce heirs to carry my name ahead.”

“And what does that mean?” she asked again, though her eyes knew _exactly_ what he meant.

The softness in her expression encouraging him, he drew closer. “It means you mean the world to me,” he confessed, his fingertips caressing her cheek, sailing along her jaw. 

“The Tyrells won, after all,” she admitted in her own way, leaning into his touch. “They wanted to bring us together and they—” 

“ _We_ won, wench,” he murmured, his free hand reaching between them to seek hers. “The Tyrells might have guided us to listen, to probe deeper into what we want, but they didn’t instill this love in our hearts.” He fondled her fingers, letting her touch drift down to every part of him. “And I’m glad we played along. Every word I said at that inn, Brienne—” A deep breath did him some good, but not much to keep down the emotion in his voice. Not that he wanted to, anyway. “It was my heart crying out, my lady, wishing it was me in Renly’s place—”

“It was always you,” she said, her voice breaking. “Only, it took me this long to realize it.” 

He leaned in closer, until their faces were inches apart, until he could sense the essence of her, until he could feel her air on his lips. When her breathing quickened, he moved in further, noticing her eyelids flutter shut as his lips touched hers. Cuts and scratches apart, they were softer than he’d expected, and smoother, and so amazing, the sensation blowing him away. “I love you, Brienne.”

He could feel her smile under his touch, and the warmth of her blush when she softly replied, “I love you, too.” Barely spoken, it was more of a movement of her lips to those words, and it lit up his world and set his heart soaring in bliss, surrounding him with a bright glow of sunshine at this hour of the dark.

His fingers flickered back around her throat, then adorned the back of her neck, pulling her in and bringing them closer together. He could feel her heartbeat rising, and he knew she’d acquainted herself to his. They beat to one rhythm, after all. He could feel a magical _something_ flow between them as their lips fused to become one, something that strengthened their bond, something that urged him to take this beyond just a tender kiss—

She pulled back abruptly. “Stay here tonight.” Her blazing eyes, the way she clutched his shirt reflected exactly what he wanted, screaming out to him that she craved all that he did. “Don’t leave.”

“You’re a maiden,” he tried to resist, knowing he’d crumble if she carried on looking at him like that. “And until we’re married—”

“We _are_ married, Jaime.” Her face brightened with a fond smile. “Remember the vows that night at the inn? That wasn’t Renly or Margaery, but—”

“I am yours,” he said, his mind erupting into visions of the memorable night to come as he drew in to kiss her again. “Every night and every day.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Brienne stood at the window, smiling to herself as she took in the first rays of the sun. Every part of her was still tingling with his touch, the flames unextinguished, waiting to flare up again at the slightest flicker of his skin on hers. _I will always be yours,_ he had promised her, when she had taken him in, when he had taken her to realms she’d only visited in her mind before.

“So will I,” she whispered, prodding the knot on the sheet at her chest. Her nipples perked up to her touch when she rubbed her hands across her breasts, the familiar sensation of need hitting her groin when she recalled all that he’d done last night. She wanted more, wanted him again, wanted him to— 

“Dreaming about me even when awake?” Before she could turn, his arm went around her, fingers on her chest promptly undoing the knot to let the sheet drop to the floor. 

“Such confidence,” she playfully challenged him, biting her lip as his thumb pushed down her nipple. “What makes you think—” 

“You’re much prettier in daylight,” he purred, bearing down on the back of her neck with his mouth, his lips and his tongue. 

“Do you always get this poetic in the mornings?” she teased, leaning back into his caress. “Or have you just chosen this morning to—”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” He began to douse her with lazy kisses, starting with her neck, then moving down to her shoulders, pausing leisurely at every bit of skin he visited, lingering, absorbing her scent, tasting the flavour that was him and her, their arousal, their union. His touch took her back to last night, to everything that had happened between them. “But for that—” his tongue joined his lips, relishing her need for more, his teeth mildly biting down into her flesh “—you’d have to wake up next to me each morning, wench.” 

She sighed when his hands trailed along a path down her arms. “You know, I’m more than willing to,” she said, when he locked her fingers with his. He wrapped her in an embrace, pressing her closer to him, and that was the end of all else in her mind. She gave in to her lust and affection, moving back until she could feel his erection, his balls pushing into her skin. 

“Marry me today,” Jaime whispered longingly into her ear, his breath breezing over her skin and deep within. “Let’s not wait anymore.” His hand on hers, he guided her down her body, and she sailed down his stream of desire, feeling herself as he’d felt her last night. Where his fingers took her, she went, reaching out to every concealed spot of pleasure. “We’ve already wasted precious time,” he gasped, his other hand cupping her breast. 

“We—” she stuttered, losing focus on words when he led her hand down between her thighs “—we need—”

She couldn’t go on. Their fingers jointly breaching her folds, kneading and stroking her pulsing nub, his thumb tracing the curve of her breast, strolling up, then sliding down with every rise and dip—he was flooding her with sensations unmatched. Sinking back into his embrace, she draped her arm around his neck, her fingers raking through his hair as he took to rousing her teats beyond she could take it. “Jaime, your father—” 

“He will consent,” he reassured her before she could even voice the doubt in her mind.

She turned in his arms. “Margaery is the one he intended for you—”

“He knows better than to turn down my wishes.” He kissed her lips, slowly, his hand running down her back, the hairs on her skin standing erect as he went up and down all the way down to her ass. “It is you or I don’t marry at all. I’ll threaten to join the Kingsguard again if he happens to object.” 

“But that’s blackmail—”

“Everything’s fair in love and war.”

Grabbing the back of her neck, he deepened the kiss, sucking her, once again, into the sea of heated passion they’d drowned in last night. This, she wanted, to feel his love forever, to feel his kisses intensify and set her on fire. 

“Thank the gods our fathers are already on their way here,” he said, his words interspersed with kisses he stole from her. “But every moment until then would be torture, wench—” 

“Not if every night were to end like last night and every morning to begin as this one.”

Pressing her aching nipples into his hard chest, she closed the gap between them. She could feel his desperation, his need for her, and when she moved her hips against his, he moaned into her mouth, smothering her with kisses so torrid that they’d leave bruises on her lips. This, she wanted day in and day out—this unadulterated, unrushed pleasure of their embrace, their bodies melded together, the smolderingly delightful way in which they tasted each other.

Jaime lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed, and her anticipation building, she wrapped her legs around his hips, impatient for him to begin, eager to get to a climax stormier than her last. He stumbled across the clothes they’d left strewn all over last night, unwilling to look where he was going, unable to keep his eyes and mouth off her.

He set her down and she pulled him atop her, the mounting tension in her groin killing her. “Every night, Jaime,” she gasped, when he began drawing provocative circles along the insides of her thighs. “And every morning.” The words were barely out, barely recognizable as he began inching his way upwards, up towards her core. She could feel herself opening, inviting him, wet with arousal with his touch and his promise of so much more. His mouth sought hers as fingers kissed and teased, tugging and dancing and gliding down up and down her thighs, drawing invisible patterns on the backs of her knees. His other hand took to a different mode of torture, unleashing itself on her breasts, massaging and palming and caressing them in turns, lavishing them with such attention that made her toes curl in pleasure and frustration. 

His hands and his reluctance to leave her mouth alone, the joint culprit, her breaths left her in short strangled bursts, every gasp, every pant encouraging him to kiss her harder.

Slowly, and so softly, his fingers continued to probe her wetness, and with measured strokes, he began to get to her, to take her down. Moaning, though barely so, she arched against his hand, needing more, more than that.

 _Every night,_ she told him with her eyes, and withdrawing his hand, he slid between her legs.

_And every morning._

This, she wanted. Him. And his lust for her, his insatiable hunger for her body.

_He is mine._

His cock pressing wantonly against her, twitching and throbbing and aching for her soft folds, craving for the warmth within her. Every hair right from his chest down to his needy arousal, rubbing against her soft skin, coarse and abrasive. Every drop of sweat beading on his skin. Every kiss, every little press of his teeth into her flesh, every bit of the tongue memorising the taste of her.

Oh yes, hers!

He began filling her with slow, long thrusts, each bringing her closer to him, bringing him deeper inside her. This, she wanted day and night, for countless days to come. His body sprawled over hers was the best sensation ever, his weight on her, pinning her down, his hands all over, studying and feeling every detail, every freckle, every mark and every scar on her.

_And I am his. Not Cersei. Not Margaery._

His hands caressed up her thick thighs, and she hummed in delight, her fingers spraying over his back, feeling every muscle as he moved above her. Lost in him, she joined him in this dance they’d been eluding for days, stepping into his rhythm, swaying to the music he made—they made together, the lovely melody of love their hearts had composed. 

Wanted. Aroused. Loved. He made her feel all of this. And more.

Jaime made her feel like a woman. His beauty, he had called her last night, covering her mouth with affectionate kisses when he took her the first time. 

Tempering down his kisses, he looked deep into her eyes with the same longing as the flames engulfed them further, their need building, every emotion plain and bare on his face.

_Yes, he is mine._

All of him. From the beat of his heart to his balls beating into her flesh, every sensation, every bolt that struck him as he continued ramming into her, stretching her…

Only hers.

Her walls began to clench, gripping him, telling her she was close. She caressed down his chest, and his breathing, just like hers, altered to irregular gasps and pants as her touch egged him to go faster, nudging him to join her, to burn with her.

She was crashing, going down in spasms that began to wrap her tightly in a web she wanted to break free of, and at the same time, linger along for as long as she could.

_All of him. All of me._

She convulsed around him, pushing down on him, imprisoning him. Tighter, _tighter_. She could feel the same fever rush through him, the same gushing sense of urgency, of the need to have more.

His lips continued their reverent worship of hers, breathing down soft moans and gentle whispers of her name. His rhythm slowly began to pick up pace, becoming wilder, more ferocious. Every thrust was a thumping vow. That there would be none but her. Every kiss was a glimpse into the future, a future they would bring on together. She could see their lives flow together in a rhythm, in and out, up and down, the strings that bound them together so powerful that nothing could saw them apart.

Never had she felt so alive, so wanted. 

Whether they were giant tidal waves that tugged at her or a tempest that engulfed her, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was she was beginning to crumble, to come down, to collapse around him, her softness coaxing his end out of him, dragging him along.

And this time, he joined her.

Crushing her lips with his, he went down one last time, their bodies colliding, the finality of their pleasure merging into one as she felt his hot seed erupt and flood the very depths of her. 

“Every night,” he whispered, pressing his mouth to her heart in a sated kiss as he collapsed onto her.

“And every morning,” she promised, closing her eyes to the comforting pressure of his body.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convincing the parents. And a happy ending :)

“How dare she turn us down?” his father bellowed, rage marking every line, thick and thin, on that aged face. “I thought she was smart enough to weigh the consequences of this betrayal.”

Jaime had to be careful not to let his composure drop. “I was told she considered me too old for her granddaughter,” he lied, though not entirely sure if his father would fall for it. “Renly’s far younger, much more—”

“That little cunt has a hidden life going on in the bedchambers of her grandson. Under the fucking blankets. Does she even realize what she might have to face if word slipped out that—” Tywin’s fury changed course to a malevolent glint in his eyes. “I could bring her down, her house, her family—”

“Why don’t you just accept it and let it go?” Jaime had no interest in dealing with the Tyrells or avenging his insult. Margaery, this broken marriage, none of it mattered. While he’d used the same threat against Olenna, what good was going to come out of expending their time in exploring Loras’ proclivities?

“Why would you push me towards that?” His father strode over, trapping him in a look that was both suspicious and intimidating. “Why do I get the feeling you have a hand in this—”

“I don’t—” he started, before he could help it, but his eyes, the way he involuntarily rubbed his palm against his trouser leg didn’t go unnoticed. 

“What are you hiding from me, Jaime?” The prodding gaze he’d been the recipient of countless times in the past returned to extract the truth. “If you’re thinking you can go back to Cersei by volunteering for the Kingsguard—”

“I intend to do no such thing,” Jaime hastily clarified. “I already told you I have no such inclinations towards Cersei anymore.”

Puzzlement filled those sharp green eyes. “What is it then? Don’t you want to get married?”

“I do, but it’s not Margaery that I want. And she doesn’t want me either. So what is the point in pursuing this alliance if no one’s going to be happy with it?”

His father’s lips thinned. He was clearly fighting the urge to blow up. “Marriages are not fixed only so you can be _happy_ , son. Marital bliss is just one side to it. You find a wife. Love will follow. There are greater interests to be considered, bigger causes,” he explained, “and I see no one else fit enough to wear your cloak. So instead of wasting words here, I’d rather meet with Lady Olenna and deal with this my way—”

“It need not be Margaery,” Jaime hastily hinted. “Someone else—”

“Who else?” His father took a moment to ponder. “Other than her, there’s just Selwyn Tarth’s daughter and I don’t want to saddle you with her—”

“What if I want her?”

His admittance was parried by a mildly amused look. “What?”

“I wish to marry Brienne of Tarth. And it’s not because I _have to_ marry someone.” Jaime puffed his cheeks, exhaling a heavy breath. Some resistance, he’d expected from his father, but he had not anticipated it to be this tedious. “Granted, Brienne is not the future wife you sent me here to woo, but she is no less. A highborn woman with the goodness and innocence most women can’t boast of, I’d be the luckiest man in the world to have her as my lady wife and the mother of my children.” 

An expected spell of silence met this lengthy confession. His father paced the room, presumably wondering if he’d heard correctly, mulling things over, working out the advantages and disadvantages this unusual decision could have on his house, his future descendents.

“She is not Margaery,” he said at last, coming to a halt after a few seconds of brisk pacing.

“I’m glad she isn’t,” Jaime murmured with a smile, recalling every wonderful night they’d spent together since their magical moment of realization. “She’s—”

“—not beautiful—”

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve met.”

“We won’t have a hold on the Reach.”

“We don’t need it.”

“You deserve better, someone to match your beauty, your—”

“I want _her_.” Jaime was ready to travel to the world’s ends, if need be, to convince his father. “I need her, father, and—” He decided to make it plain and clear. “I love her, father.”

His jaw tightening, his father gave him a look that asked, _Are you absolutely certain?_

Jaime held his head high, met that piercing gaze with one of his own.

“Have it your way then,” his father sighed, his relentless persuasion ending in helpless resignation. “If it’s a choice between her and the Kingsguard, you know what my wish would be.”

Jaime allowed himself a smile, at last. “I must talk to Lord Selwyn and seek her hand right now.”

+++++

Selwyn Tarth was confused, surprised and somewhat intimidated when Jaime, before his father could engage in a formal talk with him, insisted on breaking the news to him first. “Given how Lady Olenna has suddenly flipped away from the alliance to forge ties with Lord Renly, I should’ve seen this coming,” he jumped into his own conclusion after countless seconds of churning it over in his mind and several sips of wine.

And obviously, he had misunderstood. “It isn’t my father, my lord.”

Lord Selwyn looked even more perplexed, somewhat tense, even. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not Renly, not the son you wanted,” Jaime began, hoping for it to be a lot less difficult with Lord Selwyn as compared to his father. “In your eyes, I might not be worthy of your daughter. I’m the Kingslayer—” 

“I don’t care about that, about what the world thinks of you,” Brienne stepped in, chin quivering, voice slightly trembling. “And I don’t want to marry Renly anymore.”

“But—” her father looked from her to Jaime and back at her again “—I thought you—”

“That was before I opened my eyes to what I truly desire, father,” she confessed in hushed tones. “I love Ser Jaime—”

“—and I love your daughter, Lord Selwyn.” Jaime reached out for her hand. “And I swear I will until the stranger summons me,” he said, meaning every word of it. “And even after that.”

“Your youth speaks today, Ser Jaime. But what will it be in twenty years from now? Would you feel the same about my daughter?” He still looked unconvinced. “Men have turned her down because she’s—”

“She’s beautiful,” Jaime stopped him before he could utter the word _ugly._ Never did he want to hear of it again, particularly when in reference to her. “As for twenty years from now, who knows what I’m going to look like? I might become fat and shapeless, lose all my hair—” he shook his head “—when two hearts come together, none of this matters, my lord.” 

With a smile brighter than all the candles put together, she let him thread his fingers in hers. “He’s the one I want, father.”

Lord Selwyn, just like his father, sighed in acceptance, a sign that he was going to rest his concerns, at last. “Very well, then.” He gave his daughter a fond smile. “If it’s going to make you happy, you both have my blessings.” 

The happiest man in the world, Jaime left Lord Selwyn’s chambers with his wife-to-be, her hand in his, just like it would be for the rest of a beautiful future he could foresee.

“Even after death?” Brienne whispered once he’d closed the door behind them, her eyes brimming with emotion.

Jaime stepped forward to kiss her. “Always.”

+++++

Here he was, at the betrothal feast, at last, one step closer to the best day of his life. 

Margaery looked pretty and radiant as usual, much happier that she’d been earlier now that she had eyes for no one but Renly. The air was full of joy and merriment, couples, young and old, eager for the dance to begin, children laughing and running around. The musicians began to ready themselves, flutes and harps settling into tune. The dance was about to begin, and Jaime craned his neck again, lonely, despite the horde of men and women surrounding him. His eyes fixed on the entrance, he cared for none but—

There she was, standing at the threshold, awkward as ever, blue eyes skimming the crowd, nervous and tentative.

Jaime rushed over to her. “Blue is a good colour on you,” he gushed, taking his time to take her in. The blue dress he’d gifted looked just as pretty as it had been the first time she’d donned it, and as much as he wanted her to stay like this, there was this burning urge to peel it off her. 

“You’ve already told me that,” she brushed him off with a shy smile and a blush creeping up her neck. “More than once.”

His hand went to the sapphire resting on her neck. “You were right,” he murmured, his fingers straying over the edge of the jewel, feathering across her smooth skin which was beginning to turn slightly pink with his touch. “This does belong to my wife-to-be. And it has found its way home.”

“I had a bit of trouble dressing up, hence the delay,” she explained, patting down her dress to smoothen the non-existent creases. “My handmaiden was unwell and she had to leave, leaving me in the lurch—”

“I could’ve been of assistance, wench.” His mind raced away, already half way through it. “I would’ve loved help you into it—“ he paused to give her a teasing wink “—-although I’d prefer to rip it off you, one lace at a time, layer after layer—”

“One thing at a time,” Brienne stopped him, colouring deeper. 

“Right,” he agreed, holding out his hand. “For now, may I have this dance, my lady?”

The smile returning the glow to her face, she accepted his hand. “This—” step for step, she was by his side when he led her to the centre of the hall “—and every other dance I might indulge in, Jaime.”

Mildly disappointed that he had to let go of her hand for them to join their respective lines, he whispered, “We practised for Renly and Margaery, but here we are—”

“—where we’re meant to be,” she finished.

When the music set them in motion, Jaime was lost to the world, everyone and everything but the woman before him lost to him. She was all he could see, feel, breathe. She was all he wanted.

And he would be hers forever.

“You’re beautiful,” he admired, when the beat brought her swirling into his arms.

“Will you stop flattering me with these sweet lies?” she scolded playfully, but the warmth in her fingers told him she appreciated it, was maybe even overwhelmed. 

“They’re not lies,” he breathed in her ear when she swayed across to the other side. “And now that you’re going to wake up next to me every morning, you’d better get used to hearing this.”

+++++

“Wake up, sweetling.”

Jaime gazed into her face. Five whole years had gone by since they had begun their lives as man and wife, yet, the anticipation of watching those pretty eyes fluttering open to greet him and a new day in their lives had not lost its charm.

His wife tossed him a lazy smile and stretched her arms, but when she was about to get up, he pinned her down with his body, his lips hovering over hers. “You’re going nowhere this early, wench. Not today, definitely.” He dived into those eyes. “Today, you’re all mine.”

She wriggled under him, but made no great effort to leave the bed. “The children—”

“The Septa can take care of them for one morning.” His eyes flashed down her neck, her breasts, those pointed teats, sore though they still looked from last night, inviting his touch. He took her in a passionate kiss, lips and tongue and all, and with a contented hum and her arms going around him, she drew him into her world—their world. 

“You look beautiful,” he whispered when they were compelled to breathe, his hand on her belly, stroking and caressing, drawing lazy circles around her navel.

“Don’t you ever tire of saying that?” she chided him gently.

“Never.”

Five years. Countless days of arguments and conflicts, squabbles, big and small. Yet, every night, they’d retire to bed in each other’s arms, the day’s differences put to rest, and every morning they’d wake up like this, looking forward to a new day of love and longing, passion and desire.

He pressed his mouth to her neck, he could feel her pulse quicken, those fingernails tracing lines down his back. Just like every time. Five years and two children later, the fire burned high and bright, with the same intensity as their first night together, the heat within her, consuming him, the passion in him, melting her.

Bodies and minds, they knew each other more than themselves. Kisses on her neck, exactly where she craved them, nibbles on an ear, beneath it, a tug here and a nip there—he showered her with them every time they made love, yet, it felt just as enticing this morning as it had been the night they’d first lain together. One touch, one right touch at the right place, and they’d burst into flames. 

Like she did now with a delightful shiver when he skimmed his finger up the slope of her breast.

And a wanton sigh to stir his arousal. 

The needy tilt of her head back, then to one side, then the other. 

The softest utterance of his name when his lips traced her collarbone.

The desperation in her fingers when she reached for his cock as his mouth closed over a nipple.

This uncontainable urgency despite having all the time in the world, this need building, this want.

Five years or fifty, Jaime was sure she’d have this effect on him. Every single time. Every night and every morning.

He reached down to touch her where she needed him, to take her through another journey, to ride down this path of agony and explosive bliss with her, to explore, despite knowing every inch of her body like the back of his hand. The thrill of it, the pleasure of watching her reaction, to feel it trickle into his senses, even today, took his arousal bursting through the roof. 

And she rewarded him with the response his body craved for.

A whimper, her body arching into his, her breasts pushing into his chest.

She was wet, gods, so wet and aching for him! And he was hard, hard as hell for her. So fucking needy!

He dived into a kiss again, taking in her strangled breathing as he began probing, caressing her gently. 

“You,” she moaned, her fingers rubbing his shaft, thumb pressing into the head, teasing, demanding. “I need you.”

He did, too. He needed to be inside her, buried deep into that burning wetness.

He lingered around her entrance, just the tip, wandering, and locking her legs around his hips, she pulled him into an intimate embrace, her hand guiding him, leading him to tease her folds.

It was a flurry of sensations, unfelt before, yet familiar. Bodies melded as one, they were, and skin on skin, rubbing and stroking, edging, tormenting. Up and down. In, but only just, then out, only for her to urge him back again. Fingers, hers caressing his balls, his, reaching between them to provoke her swollen nub, mouths locked in a mating duel—it was magic as usual, yet with a newness that came with it. 

“Yes,” she sighed, when he slipped in, inch by inch, taking his time.

Her eyes were halfway between shut and open and Jaime was somewhere up in one of the heavens. Kisses, fiery and hungry, they pounced on each other with. The first gentle thrust still felt like the first time ever.

He went further, lower, deeper. He could feel her shudder, feel her pleasure coursing through his thighs. Sighs and heavy breathing, urgent chants of each other’s names hit the walls and bounced back into their ears, flooding their senses, taking this further, farther.

Together. Her and Him. Two knights bound by love and more, a lord and his lady wife.

They moved as one, to a rhythm that never failed to miss a beat—this was a dance that got more desirable with every passing day. She gripped him hard, her hand cupping his ass. His fingers roamed, probed, little sighs of pleasure escaping her lips when he hit the right spot, pushed into her with just the right pressure.

“Jaime—” Her eyes widened, her heels dug into his flesh, she jerked and thrust into him.

Yes, like always, he could feel her clenching, tightening, holding him like she’d never want to let go. The storm would be upon them, to take them apart, to take them to another world. Soon.

_Yes, soon._

The music picked up, filling the air with notes of lust and love, want and a sense of belonging. Up, soared its tempo, faster now, furious, more hectic. And they kept up their dance, swaying to the tune, the rhythm enveloping them both, wrapping them tightly.

Faster, harder, deeper, he went down on her, and she dragged him with her, up, up and above the clouds, to the sun and the stars—

Where she went, he gladly accompanied her, as always. 

A hoarse cry. A feral grunt. And then—

Everything and nothing, he was.

He was hers.

Bliss and contentment. Him and her. Jaime closed his eyes in the hope that it might seal this moment in his mind. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, opening his eyes to the pair that never ceased to enchant him. 

Brienne wiped away a stray stream of sweat running down his chest. “Are you going to keep saying this lifelong, Jaime?”

“Every single day.” He planted a tender kiss to her mouth. “And every night. You ought to be used to it by now.” He recalled the unforgettable moment when they were proclaimed to be one, this same day, five years back. “I am yours and you’re mine, Brienne.”

Her lips trembled slightly. “Even after death?”

Jaime flipped to his back and pulled her into an embrace. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This brings me to the end of another fic. 
> 
> Firstly, to everyone who's been following this, thank you so much. As always, I deeply appreciate your love and support.
> 
> Secondly, a bit of an honest confession- this hasn't been smooth sailing, particularly the last month or so, wherein, many days, I've lost the motivation to write (not only this story, but anything at all.) I've gone through patches when I've been tempted to delete my profile, even. But thankfully, I'm in a better mental space now :) And I have sort of an OCD-I can't leave anything incomplete, so all my WIPs WILL be done, rest assured. That's not to say I don't love this fic. I do, it's just that this was caught in some rough times.
> 
> Lastly, I cannot stress enough how much your words of encouragement mean to me! Most of them, when I re-read them on a rough day, bring a smile to my face. So please do keep your comments coming in.
> 
> Enough of my rambling, all I'd like to conclude with is - JB rock! So do all of you. Thank you!


End file.
